


Gold Shall Be Their Crowns

by rexaquilo



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Domestic Violence, Eventual Romance, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build, Slow Burn, same ofc in both pairings but not a love triangle
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-16
Updated: 2019-08-18
Packaged: 2019-10-29 07:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 53,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17803853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rexaquilo/pseuds/rexaquilo
Summary: ...and gold their shrouds.All her life, Joanna Baratheon waited for the day she could leave the Red Keep and all her problems behind. As she and the court left King's Landing for the North, she never could have imagined the troubles that would follow them, or greet them there.





	1. Prologue - A Bird Without Feathers

The babe had not a hint of Lannister about her, so Cersei named her Joanna to make up for what she lacked. The morning dawned bright through her window, and she could hear bells ringing outside. Grand Maester Pycelle had said that the babe would not last the night, and yet here they were. The little thing, tiny and pink and frail, was still breathing. She was swaddled in Cersei’s arms, head covered in dark downy hair, fast asleep.

If the baby died, would that be the worst thing in the world, Cersei wondered? She had never wanted - or intended - to share her body. On her wedding night, she drank moon tea, and she thought that it would be enough. But her blood never came, and her belly began to swell. When her labor pains came at only seven months, she thought that the gods had heard her prayers. Her body would finally be rid of Robert's child. 

And then, with a grave look, Maester Pycelle placed the tiny creature in her arms, and Cersei looked at her. She was an ugly little thing, and so small. Cersei listened to each tiny, quivering breath, and it struck her that this was hers. She had made this, gave seven months of her life for this. The maester warned her not to name the child - not to grow attached. 

"She is my baby," Cersei insisted in a hard voice. "If she must go to her grave, I will not send her without a name." 

So she gave Joanna a Lannister name. A name that belonged to Cersei. Joanna was wholly hers. After all, what had Robert done except grunt and pass out? What had he done but imagine that Lyanna Stark was beneath him? He didn't even have the good grace to look at Cersei's face as he planted his seed in her. 

It had never mattered to Cersei if Robert loved her, but she wondered if he would love Joanna. She wondered if he would be sad if Joanna died. If he wasn't, she would hate him forever. If he didn't mourn Joanna, Cersei was sure that Jaime would have to retrain her from killing him. But if he loved Joanna... 

Would his affections for Cersei grow? Was that even what she wanted? Or would they remain forever in a marriage haunted by the ghost of Lyanna Stark? She imagined it for a moment, a queen happy and in love with her king. It was a pretty picture, but she didn't think it could ever be real. Robert had his whores to warm his bed, and Cersei had Jaime. That was all she ever wanted. She could never love Robert, and as she stared down into the face that reflected his, she wondered if she could love Joanna too. 

She startled out of her thoughts when she realized that she hadn't heard the babe breathe. In a panic, she rubbed the babe's chest, gently and firmly. 

"Come back to me," she whispered, staring down at Joanna. "Come back to me." 

Joanna opened her mouth wide and sucked in a deep breath. Cersei's hands shook with fear. Nothing had scared her in her life more than that moment. It had never sunk in before that moment that if Joanna died, it would be in her arms. _I take it back,_ she thought, a half-prayer to the Seven. _I want to keep her._

So she sat, unsleeping, through the night, keeping vigil over the babe. Jaime slept next to her, unworried by the plight of the babe beside him. He had resigned his hope for Joanna, but Cersei would not give up yet. The morning dawned bright, bringing with it the sound of bells to celebrate Joanna's birth. The maester returned, surprised to see Cersei awake and the baby alive. Cersei nursed her, and the maester left once more, warning Cersei not to expect Joanna to last the day. 

"She looks remarkably like Robert, doesn't she?" Jaime commented, leaning over Cersei's shoulder to look at the babe she was holding. Cersei hummed softly. 

"She's perfect." 

Jaime reached out to pull the blankets away from Joanna's face so he could see her better. 

"Careful," Cersei chided, moving the baby away so Jaime was no longer touching her. Jaime watched her closely, but her attention was focused on the baby. 

"Cersei..." he said lowly. "Put her down and get some sleep. Dwelling on her won't make losing her any easier." 

Cersei's head snapped to him, eyes blazing. 

"Get out." 

Jaime was taken aback. He had stayed by Cersei's side all night. When the pains gripped her, she asked not for water or medicine. She only asked for him. He had comforted her when the babe was born and did not cry. He slept beside her all night so she wouldn't be alone. She had never asked for him to leave her before. 

"I'm sorry -" 

"I said _get out._ " 

Reluctantly, slowly, he stood from the bed and exited the room. Now, Cersei and Joanna were alone, surrounded by hazy morning light and the sound of celebration bells. The babe was hardly the length of her forearm, and weighed so little that Cersei felt only the weight of the blankets in her arms. Every so often, her eyes flickered shut, nodding into sleep before jolting awake once more, worried each time that she would wake and Joanna wouldn't be breathing. 

She started awake again when the doors burst open, Robert striding in. He was tall and handsome, robust and strongly built, his dark hair tied back. His stride quickened when he was in the room, until finally he knelt at Cersei's bedside. He gazed at the baby for a long moment. 

"Let me see her." 

Cersei didn't want to let Joanna go. Nevertheless, she gingerly passed him the tiny bundle in her arms. To her surprise, Robert held her with the utmost care, making sure not to jostle her too much. 

"Gods, she's small," he said quietly. "How long will she live?" 

Cersei looked down at her hands. "Maester Pycelle says this will be her only day." 

Robert stared down at the baby for a long moment. He brought up a large, calloused hand, and brushed his fingertips over the soft, dark hair on her head. Then he handed her back to Cersei. 

"Damn shame," he said. He stood and left the room. 

Cersei looked after him, shaking. Anger roared in her stomach and she wanted to scream. She had given her body, her life, to grow the babe he'd put in her and he'd brushed her off. As had everyone else, with little regard for how much Cersei wanted her. She looked down at Joanna, sound asleep. _All of this trouble for just you,_ she thought. _Just for Robert's spawn._ And yet, the babe was more than that to her. She was not Robert's. Joanna was _hers_. 

"You'll live," she hissed at the baby, almost desperate. She could not bear the thought of Joanna taking her final breath. " _Please._ For me. You must live."


	2. Winterfell

The North had a beauty wholly unlike the South. King's Landing was colorful and bright, and the air smelled of flowers and salt of the sea. Here, the air just smelled...cold. It was sharp on the nose, and the sky was bleak above, and the ground frozen and unforgiving underfoot. Still, to Joanna, who had never been outside of King's Landing, it was a fascinating place. She sat at the edge of her seat, arms crossed upon the window sill.

"Aren't you bored?" Myrcella asked, moving from her seat across the wheelhouse next to their mother. 

"No," she replied, turning and raising an arm so her sister could huddle beneath her heavy cloak and share in her warmth. "Doesn't sitting and reading in here make you sick?" 

"No," Myrcella responded with a giggle. "Isn't it exciting? Going to Winterfell." 

"Indeed," Joanna replied. "I only hope it's worth the trip up here." 

"Oh, it will be," Myrcella responded. She punctuated her statement with a firm, sure nod. "I've read so many stories. I heard it's a beautiful crystal palace -" 

"Sure," she snorted. "And the Red Keep is a glistening ruby castle." 

"Joanna," Cersei called, sending her daughter a stern look from her seat opposite the girls. Joanna remembered herself, pulling her sister closer to her side. 

"You're right," she said, smiling down at the young girl. "I'm sure Winterfell will be beautiful." 

"Will we be there soon?" Tommen asked, looking up at his mother from his seat on the opposite side of the wheelhouse. 

"Have patience, my love," their mother replied, taking his little hand in hers. She had never been a woman who was especially open with her love, but the trip to the North had made her even less approachable than usual. The closer they got to Winterfell, it seemed, the sourer her mood became. 

Myrcella had begun to spout off facts about Winterfell and the Starks, lists she surely had memorized from a history book she'd read, as she did so love to learn. Suddenly, the wheelhouse was beginning to feel more and more like one of Septa Eglantine’s lessons, and Joanna swiftly got the urge to escape. She withdrew from her sister, turning her attentions back to the view outside of the window and doing her best to tune out the sound of her sister's voice. 

The wheelhouse was spacious, furnished with the best that money could buy, but with so many people crammed inside, it oftentimes felt more like a prison. This was one of those times. Alongside Joanna in the wheelhouse were two of her younger siblings and her mother, as well as their companions and handmaidens. Joanna didn't have a view up ahead of the wheelhouse, but she knew that proceeding them her were father and brother, both on horseback. 

She wished terribly that she could have ridden alongside them, able to breathe fresh air and feel the cold whip of the Northern wind on her cheeks. Though admittedly, she didn't envy them the sore arse they surely felt at the end of the long day's ride. But that was a man's burden, Joanna thought; the man had to suffer from saddle arse, and the women had to suffer from everything else. 

A shout from outside drew her from her thoughts. She craned her neck, trying to get a better glimpse of what was going on. When they rounded the bend of the road, she could see the castle in the distance. A gasp broke her lips before she could stop herself, and the sound caused Myrcella to stop speaking abruptly. 

"What is it?" she asked, trying to push past Joanna to see outside the window. Joanna stood, trying to keep her balance in the wobbly wheelhouse, and allowed Myrcella to trade her places on the seat so she could see Winterfell upon the horizon. 

"Oh, it's beautiful!" Myrcella cried with glee, grinning. "Just like I knew it would be." 

In truth, Joanna didn't think Winterfell looked much different from any other castle they'd seen on their journey to the North, but Myrcella, for all she was intelligent, did have a tendency to be dreamy. Joanna settled down in the seat again, sitting next to Desmera Redwyne. Her companion since she was a child, Desmera immediately scooted closer to Joanna so they were sitting hip-to-hip. 

She didn't say anything, only took one of Joanna's hands and tried to look past Joanna and Myrcella to peek out the window at Winterfell. The other maids in the wheelhouse were chittering quietly to each other. Cersei allowed them their fun for a moment, before calling them into work. 

"Girls," she said. "Let us freshen up for the arrival." 

The handmaidens bustled around the unsteady wheelhouse, pinning up loose hairs and pinching cheeks to redden them. They were still wearing their travel clothes, but it didn't matter; everything they wore was still made of fine materials, embroidered and decorated richly. The girls worked on their hair and dress until they passed through the gates of the town, when they pressed themselves against the windows and chattered excitedly. Myrcella had still hardly left her spot, hadn't even moved when a handmaiden had moved beside her to brush out her pretty gold hair. 

"Oh, Joanna, can you see?" she asked, peering through the window with delight. "It's wonderful." 

"I'm sure it is," Joanna smiled, looking past her sister out the window. She could see rows of people lining up along the road that led to the keep. Finally, the wheelhouse came to a stop. Cersei called Myrcella over to her again, so the young girl was sitting on her mother's other side. Joanna scooted closer to the window, occupying the seat her sister had just vacated. Outside, she could see the Northerners kneeling, waiting for her father to remove his massive weight from his stallion. 

"When are we going to get out?" Tommen asked, drawing Joanna's attention away from the proceedings outside. 

"Hush," Cersei beckoned, putting an arm around his shoulders. It was only a moment that they were called outside by a gentle knock on the wheelhouse door before it was opened. The handmaidens disembarked first, lining up on one side of the door, before Joanna led her siblings out to the other side. Their mother was the last to exit the wheelhouse, stepping out into the cold Northern air. She surveyed Winterfell and the Northmen with a disinterested look. 

She waited until the King had moved down the line of Starks to approach them, offering her hand with an expectant look. Lord Stark did not disappoint, he bowed, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. 

"My Queen," he greeted. 

If anything, Joanna could say that the Starks knew how to keep the King and Queen happy. Cersei turned back to them, frowning, when Lord Stark accompanied the King to the crypts. 

"Lady Stark, if I may present my children," she said, turning back to the Stark household with a fine-tuned mask of pleasantry. She gestured to Joffrey, who had just dismounted his horse, standing cockily with his hands placed over the sword on his side. "Prince Joffrey, Joanna, Myrcella, and Tommen." 

Lady Stark gave a quick curtsy, before motioning to the keep. 

"Let us go in out of the cold," she beckoned, and Cersei's lips tightened into a smile. She beckoned for the handmaidens to follow them as Lady Stark led them inside the castle, then turned and let her pleasant mask slip away. 

* * *

Joanna leaned against the doorway, watching Septa Eglantine carefully brush through Myrcella’s pretty hair. At eleven, Myrcella was five years her junior, yet already blossoming into an attractive girl – the picture of their mother, and just as beautiful. The two sisters hardly looked a thing alike; the only thing they shared between them was their mother’s slender figure and stature. Even still, Myrcella was showing to be willowier, rather than Joanna who was strongly built. But where Myrcella was light, Joanna was dark. Myrcella’s hair was golden like their mother’s, eyes bright and shining green. Joanna, on the other hand, had the dark hair of their father, and his stormy blue eyes to match. Even all of Myrcella’s soft features were contrasted in Joanna, whose face was square instead of oval. Where Myrcella reflected their mother, Joanna reflected their father. 

“Do you suppose there will be dancing?” Myrcella asked, glancing at Joanna through the mirror. 

“I don’t know,” Joanna shrugged. “Do Northerners dance?” 

“Of course,” she replied with a small giggle. “Everyone dances.” 

“I don’t know about everyone,” Joanna said, trailing over to sit on the chest that held Myrcella’s wardrobe. “I’ve never seen Uncle Jaime dance, have you?” 

Myrcella giggled again at the thought of her uncle, in full armor, dancing a jig. She placed a dainty hand over her mouth to cover her pretty smile. 

“Besides, could you imagine seeing anyone try to stumble around the dancefloor after three or four glasses of wine? Though I suppose you wouldn’t need to imagine Father in such a state, he already –” 

“Joanna,” Eglantine snapped, sending her a stern look. Joanna shut her mouth immediately. She gave Myrcella a thin smile. 

“If you want dancing,” she said, “Then there shall be dancing. I’m sure all the Northern boys have been dreaming of dancing with you.” 

“You really think so?” Myrcella asked, examining her reflection in the mirror. Eglantine finished with her hair and stepped away. 

“Of course!” Joanna replied, standing and moving to occupy the spot behind Myrcella’s chair that Septa Eglantine had just vacated. She placed her hands on her sister’s thin shoulders. “Look how lovely you are. Come, let’s show Mother.” 

Joanna took Myrcella’s hand when she stood, guiding her out of the chambers she’d been given. They trailed through the corridors of Winterfell, Septa Eglantine at their heels, until they reached their mother’s chambers. When they were invited in, Cersei was still having her hair piled atop her head in the southern fashion, the same way Joanna’s hair had been pulled up. Cersei caught sight of them in the mirror. She lifted her hand for her handmaiden to step away from her, and turned in her chair to face her daughters. 

For a long moment, Joanna felt naked under her mother’s scrutiny, worried that the slightest detail would be askew. She was worried that there would be something about her that would cause Cersei to disapprove. Finally, though, she smiled. 

“Such beauties you are,” she said, though her smile was thin and tight. “Your presence at the feast will be a gift to the North.” 

She turned back, allowing her handmaiden to continue fixing up her hair. Joanna shifted on her feet. After a moment, she sat down on her feet beside the low chair in which Cersei sat. Cersei reached over to tug gently at the braids of hair that hung over Joanna’s shoulders. 

“Mother,” she asked. “Is it true that Joffrey is going to marry Lord Stark’s daughter?” 

“So it seems,” Cersei replied, not allowing her face or tone of voice betray her true feelings about the arrangement. 

“Does that mean that the Starks are going to come down to King’s Landing with us when we return?” 

Cersei hummed briefly in thought. “That depends if Lord Stark accepts your father’s offer. So you’ll be friendly with them tonight.” 

“Of course.” Joanna frowned, dismayed that her mother thought she had to be told to be welcoming to the Starks. In Joanna’s opinion, she was never anything but friendly. 

Once Cersei was ready, both girls followed her through the corridors down to the great hall of Winterfell. They were seated down at one of the lower tables, allowing for Lord and Lady Stark, as well as the King and Queen to occupy the head table. From her vantage point at the head of the room, Cersei watched the crowd below as the revelry commenced. She wasn’t one for feasts and parties as it was, but having to be in Winterfell only made her mood sourer. Perhaps in King’s Landing, she could bring herself to enjoy the music and food, though never actively participate. Here, however, she hardly had the stomach to finish her meal. 

Robert had hardly finished the first course before moving down from the high table to mingle. It would be a charming gesture, perhaps, if he weren’t drunk and openly misbehaving. But all who were visited by Robert were glad to receive him, enjoying his presence until he decided to move on. Cersei’s attention was drawn to yet another member of her family mingling among the crowd; Joanna had always been one for conversation, an affable and sociable young woman. She always had been. Though frail as a young girl, she had always been energetic, vibrant and full of life. 

Working her way down the table, Joanna looked down to see that she was nearing Sansa Stark’s seat. Several times, Joanna caught sight of Sansa and her friend glancing over at Joffrey and giggling to each other. She wished she could tell them what a terror he was, how horrible he was to live with, to be related to. But there was no use. No one she told ever took her seriously. At every complaint, she was told that brothers terrorize their sister's when they're young - it's just what they do. Joffrey would be better when he was older, they said. Only now they were growing into adults, and hardly anything changed. Perhaps the only improvement was that Joanna had a much easier time avoiding him. Regardless, she smiled as she approached the young Lady Stark, settling on the bench across from her. She leaned on her elbows, scooting forward so she was at the edge of her seat. 

“I hear we’re going to be good-sisters one day,” she said without preamble. Sansa was clearly startled at the sudden introduction, but she was quick to smile politely. “Are you very excited?” 

“Oh yes,” Sansa nodded eagerly. She was very pretty, especially so when her face was lit up like this. “The Prince is very handsome, and I hear he’s very kind.” 

Joanna couldn’t help her smile from fading, though she was quick to cover it. She cleared her throat and forced the smile back on her face again. 

“Well, I bet you’ll love King’s Landing. A young lady like you will simply thrive at court.” 

“You think so?” Sansa asked, sounding truly hopeful. Joanna nodded eagerly. 

“Oh yes,” she assured. “Everybody will love you. Tomorrow, I hope you’ll show me around Winterfell?” 

“Of course, my Lady,” she replied, nodding dutifully. Joanna could practically see the excitement in her eyes. 

“Wonderful,” she smiled, reaching across the table to squeeze Sansa’s hand before standing once more. She weaved through the crowds, taking in the energy of everyone around her. There were some who called out to her, trying to make conversation, who she didn’t know. Regardless, Joanna was happy to converse with them, sharing a joke or two before moving on. As she was about to make her way back to her seat, she was startled by a hand on her shoulder. She turned to find her Uncle Jaime towering over her, pulling her close so she could hear him over the commotion of the crowded hall. 

“You should come with me,” Jaime said, gently taking Joanna’s upper arm. “Your mother wants to speak with you.” 

Joanna huffed out a breath, but turned and allowed him to lead her away. Jaime guided her through the lines of crowded tables with a hand on her back. 

“Did she say what she wanted?” Joanna asked. 

“No, but she wanted you quickly.” Jaime kept his voice low as they walked. “And she didn’t sound happy.” 

“When does she?” she murmured under her breath. She caught Jaime’s faint chuckle, but he didn’t give her a reply. He left her when they reached the high table upon the dais at the end of the hall, patting her shoulder and urging her over to her mother before walking away. Joanna approached the front of the table, dipping down in a light curtsy as was expected of her in public. 

“Yes, Mother?” she asked. 

“I want you off to bed,” Cersei replied, staring off somewhere past Joanna’s shoulder. “Take Myrcella with you. Quickly now.” 

“But Mother –” Joanna started, about to protest that it was still early in the night. Cersei silenced her with a hard look. Sighing, she nodded, taking one step before realizing that she was stood before Catelyn Stark as well. 

“Lady Stark, the meal was delicious,” she said, smiling. Lady Stark nodded, but Cersei cut in before there could be a reply. 

“Joanna.” 

Knowing better than to open her mouth again, she nodded down at Lady Stark before stepping down from the dais again. She looked out over the crowded hall, trying to remember where it was that her mother was staring. Finally, she caught sight of her father across the hall, mouth trailing wet, drunken kisses upon the neck of a serving maid. She hurried over to her sister, helping her rise from the table and making sure that Myrcella didn’t look behind her as they fled from the hall. 

Intelligent and well-read as she was, Myrcella was still of an age where she thought that all men and women who got married were in love, their parents included. Neither Cersei nor Joanna wanted her to witness the King’s drunken debauchery, least of all on such a happy night. Joanna hadn’t been much older than Myrcella was when she’d witnessed her father leaving the great hall one evening with a maid attached to his arm, his hands grabbing at her ass. 

Joanna took her up to her chambers, Desmera at their heels. Myrcella was simply delighted at the night she’d had, chattering about the friend she hoped she’d made in Sansa, and how lovely she looked, and how excited she was to be in Winterfell. When they reached the chamber that Joanna had been given, Desmera undressed the girls, letting down their hair and brushing through it before leaving them to sleep. 

The two girls climbed under the blankets and furs, settling down for bed. It had been a long time, Joanna felt, since the two had shared a bed. Myrcella was old enough now that she was fine if she had a nightmare, and she no longer needed to crawl into her sister’s bed. It was nice to share a bed with her again. She felt like she was young again, a little girl sharing stories with her sister before they went to sleep. It felt like such a crime when they were abed together, their Septa under the assumption that they were asleep, but really they stayed awake hours past their bedtime to visit, giggling quietly and talking in soft voices with each other. 

Tonight, however, Myrcella fell asleep almost immediately. She only had time to kiss her sister’s cheek goodnight before she drifted off. Joanna, not nearly as tuckered out as her sister, had time to herself to process her first day in Winterfell. Aside from the feast and the arrival itself, it was uneventful, spent mostly refreshing herself from travel and getting situated in her new chambers for the time being. Knowing that she would not be allowed to sleep in the next morning, Joanna settled into bed, forcing herself to sleep. That evening, she found herself slowly falling into sleep, consume with thoughts of Winterfell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter 1 for you :) Not many edits from the original, just corrected some spelling mistakes.
> 
> If you're finding this story for the first time, I'd love to hear what you think! I'll be back next weekend with two more chapters.
> 
> Until next time!


	3. Needlepoint

Shortly after they broke their fast in the dinner hall, Lady Sansa took Joanna by the arm and led her through the corridors of Winterfell. She was a delightful companion, Joanna found, who clearly minded her Septa very well; every question Joanna posed to her about Winterfell’s history was answered without hesitation. Part of Joanna wished she had that sort of discipline, to have sat still long enough to learn her own history, but the rest of her was content with learning only when she asked a question.

By noon, Joanna felt as though she learned the whole history of House Stark and their home. Sansa’s history lesson was sprinkled with questions about King’s Landing, which Joanna was happy to answer. She could not give the history of King’s Landing as Sansa gave the history of Winterfell, but luckily those were not the kinds of answers that Sansa was looking for. Joanna wanted to learn about Winterfell’s past, about the people that used to walk its halls in times gone by; Sansa wanted to know what courtly life was like, what gossip was fresh and what the southern fashions were. Still, Joanna found that she enjoyed Sansa’s company, and was happy to join her when she sat for needlepoint, though typically she detested such pastime. 

Though Joanna wasn’t skilled at embroidery, she could understand why so many ladies of her station found it an enjoyable hobby. There was something rather satisfying about doing such precise work, and seeing the fruits of your labor once you were done. Joanna, though, could never sit with one piece of embroidery long enough to see her finished work. With anyone else, Joanna would have been embarrassed to see her meagre needlepoint skills outshone by someone younger, but she was rather delighted to see the various samplers that Sansa had finished. 

She soon found that it was true what she’d said to Sansa the evening before; she would positively thrive at court. She enjoyed the little pleasantries and trivialities of courtly life. She had the patience and the steady mind that put her at ease among a sewing circle. Joanna so often found that she had to force herself to enjoy it. 

“What are you working on?” Sansa asked, halfway through their sitting. They had been joined by Desmera and Sansa’s friend Jeyne Poole, both at work on their own samplers. Joanna looked down at the aimless pattern she’d created with needle and thread, tilting her head to try and remember what she’d set about making when she first sat down. 

“I think it’s a tree,” she replied, determining that the aimless lines of bronze thread were the outline of a tree trunk. Septa Eglantine always chided that she got lost in thought too easily, and that her needlework suffered for it. 

Sansa, gods bless her heart, was encouraging. 

“Yes, I see,” she smiled. “That’s the trunk, isn’t it?” 

Joanna chuckled down at her own work, shaking her head. “Yes, I suppose it is.” 

“Well, it’s a very good start.” 

“Thank you, Sansa,” she said. The younger girl was so kind and gentle - it would be a breath of fresh air in King's Landing. All of Joanna's companions were kind, but none were quite as sweet as Sansa. Only Myrcella could compare - though Joanna was glad to have a new companion who was, at least somewhat, more mature. 

She grew bored with needlepoint soon after, but forced herself to remain for a while longer in fear of offending Sansa. She lazily threaded her needle through the fabric, allowing her thoughts to wander far away from sewing, caring not how her embroidered tree turned out. Sansa used her talent in needlework to make pretty dresses for herself, but Joanna had an army of tailors to do the needlework for her. Finally, when she could no longer force herself to suffer the sport, she stood. 

“I’m going to stretch my legs, I get restless sitting so long,” she said. “Mera, will you join me?” 

“Of course,” Desmera replied, happily standing and setting down her needlework. Desmera, too, was dismal at best with embroidery, though not for lack of trying. Where Joanna could find the precise work satisfying, if boring, Desmera found it altogether frustrating and needless. She was happy to join Joanna in leaving the room. 

“Thank you for showing me your home, Sansa,” said Joanna before they left. “I do hope you’ll join me again tomorrow?” 

“Oh, yes,” Sansa replied, nodding and smiling prettily. Joanna returned her smile before leaving the room arm-in-arm with Desmera. 

Once they were down the hall, and far away enough that they didn’t have to worry that anyone would overhear, Joanna let out a long sigh. 

“Are we terrible if we can’t sew for shit?” she asked. Desmera chuckled behind her hand. 

“What do we need it for, anyway?” she agreed. “It’s only because they can’t think of anything else for us to do.” 

“To be fair, though,” Joanna shrugged, “We can’t, either.” 

They laughed together, walking aimlessly through the corridors for another moment before they found themselves outside. If there was one thing Joanna loved and missed about King’s Landing, it was the open-air rooms and the expansive gardens. She couldn’t bear to be holed up in a room, and loved nothing more than the feeling of wind and fresh air on her face. If something could be done outside, then she did it outside. 

There was little to do in the courtyard, but they were perfectly happy to walk in a circle around the edges of the yard. They were halfway through their walk, just passing the smithy, when they came upon the training grounds. The area would have gone unnoticed by either of them, but when Desmera looked over briefly, she caught sight of who was drilling. 

“Oh, Joanna!” she said, pausing and grinning with delight as she pointed over at the training yard. “Look who it is!” 

Joanna looked over, curious, to see Tommen dressed in padded armor, half-heartedly sparring with young Bran Stark. She laughed, positively gleeful to see the boys training. She approached, standing with Desmera by a fence at the edge of the yard. She couldn’t help but think that the boys looked adorable in their padded armor, swinging around their little wooden swords. The both of them were puffing with the effort, red in the face. Their brothers, standing on the opposite side of the yard, were calling out encouragements – though Joanna assumed, by the vicious look on Joffrey’s face, that his encouragements were a shade closer to threats. 

The fight only lasted a few moments longer, before Tommen lost his feet and was on the ground. Just as Bran reared up the wooden sword, the master-at-arms called for the boys to stop. There was a small smattering of applause from the crowd of men who gathered, slapping the young boys on their backs as they were relieved of the armor. Joanna and Desmera crossed the yard to them, and she knelt by Tommen once his armor was gone. 

“You did so well!” she said, smiling. 

“I did not.” He kicked the dirt. “I lost.” 

“Oh, but I saw you fight, and you fought hard. Before long you’ll be as good a fighter as Uncle Jaime.” 

“You shouldn’t fill his head with such fantasies,” said a sour voice from beside them. Joanna had no control over the nasty look that came over her face. “It’ll only turn him soft. He fought like a girl out there.” 

“Go away,” she frowned, turning to look up at the elder of her younger brothers. Joffrey only scoffed. 

“You can’t tell me what to do.” 

“Go away,” she repeated firmly. “Or else I’ll hit you.” 

“Oh, hit me?” he chuckled, arms crossed over his chest. “It would be hardly a tap, I think.” 

“I could slap you and make you squeal like a pig,” she insisted, voice hard. “And all of the men here would see you for the whiny little child you are.” 

He went red in the face, and she was sure she was about to make him squeal without laying a hand on him. He struggled for a moment before finally being able to release the words from his throat. 

“You can’t speak to me like that!” 

“I already did.” She turned away from him now, smoothing down Tommen’s rustled hair. She continued under her breath, “Go cry to Mother about it.” 

She doubted he heard her, but he stomped off, likely about to go do so. 

“You did wonderful, little prince,” she said again, and Tommen beamed up at her. She leaned closer to him, lowering your voice. “You practice very hard, so you can become big and strong and you can beat up Joffrey when he bullies you.” He grinned, and she stood. “But go congratulate Lord Bran on his win, Father won’t like if he hears you’re a sore loser.” 

Tommen nodded dutifully and went to approach Bran, who was still being relieved of his armor. 

“Does your Septa teach you sportsmanship, Princess?” someone asked, and Joanna turned to see Lord Robb, the eldest of the Stark children, giving her a bemused look. 

“I love to watch the tourneys,” she said, smiling. “Father always makes it known when he’s displeased with a knight’s conduct on the field.” 

“Do you fancy yourself a master-at-arms?” he asked, and for a moment she was unsure if he’d forgotten himself and his manners. But then, after a moment, she saw the teasing that danced upon his expression, and she grinned. 

“Why, don’t you think I could sport the whiskers?” She nodded her head towards Rodrik Cassel, who was, at present, brushing a hand down the white whiskers that grew from his face. Robb laughed, turning his attention back to her. 

“Not even old Cassel can sport them, I’m afraid,” he replied with a smile. 

“Well, nonetheless, if Winterfell should ever look to replace him, you’ll know where to find me.” 

Robb chuckled again, crossing his arms over his chest and looking down at his feet before smiling up at her. “That I will.” 

Her attention was turned away from Robb at that moment, catching sight of movement over his shoulder. A young girl was lurking in the shadows of the walls, a wolf pup at her feet. Joanna recognized the girl as Lord and Lady Stark’s younger daughter, who she remembered had been causing mischief at dinner the night before. She was kicking up mud, which was splattering her dress. Joanna stifled a chuckle behind her hand. 

“Is that your sister I see covering herself in mud?” she asked. Robb turned to look behind him, uttering a groan of frustration when he saw the mess that Arya was making of herself. 

“Pardon me, princess,” he said, turning to cross the yard. She watched, head cocked slightly, as Robb talked with her for a moment before reluctantly sending her off back into the keep. He shook his head after her as she went, dragging her feet along the way, though Joanna caught sight of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. She couldn’t help but remark how different the sisters were. Dimly, she was aware of Desmera sidling up beside her. 

“How funny,” she commented. “She’s like a smaller, wilder version of you.” 

“Absolutely not – I was never so unkempt,” Joanna chuckled. “Mother never would have allowed it.” 

As a young girl, Joanna had achieved a reputation for being unruly. She leapt at every opportunity to accompany her father riding in the Kingswood, spent so much time out-of-doors that she tore her dresses faster than they could be made for her. Cersei always claimed that she could have found Joanna being raised by wolves and, with her behavior, the court would’ve believed her. But she did not truly detest courtly life the way her mother seemed to think she did. Indeed, she hated the menial pastimes like poetry and embroidery. But the court itself was what she loved – watching tourneys, sitting with her friends and indulging in the latest gossip. She longed for more freedom in the life she had, but she could never run from the court. She thrived on the attentions of others. 

“Always escaping your Septa, though,” Desmera said, returning Joanna from her thoughts. 

“If they wanted me to mind my Septa, they shouldn’t have chosen Eglantine. That woman could bore old Pycelle to death with that voice.” 

A part of Joanna felt blasphemous for speaking of Eglantine in such a way; for much of her childhood, it was Eglantine, rather than her mother, who minded her. Still, now that she had passed the age of majority and no longer had need of a Septa, she was glad to be free of Eglantine’s constant presence. 

Arm-in-arm once more, Joanna and Desmera finished their walk around the perimeter of the yard. Just before they reentered the keep, Joanna cast one more look over her shoulder, thoughts lingering on Lord Stark’s son. To her delight, she found that he was watching her go. They hardly had time to exchange a small smile before she went indoors. 

* * *

Tyrion Lannister couldn’t say that Winterfell was a place that he had been particularly excited to visit. He fancied himself a man of learning, however, and thus viewed his time in Winterfell as a learning opportunity. The first thing he’d decided to learn was what Northern whores were like. After he was retrieved from the whorehouse so politely by his brother, he hadn’t found an opportunity to go back. Instead, he had a servant lead him to Winterfell’s library, deciding to take a look around at what the Starks had to offer. 

The Starks were never considered the sharpest of wits, but Tyrion was sure that he would be able to find one or two hidden gems in the depths of their library. Septon Chayle, the ancient keeper of Winterfell’s library, droned on about what sort of books could be found there. Tyrion allowed his voice to be forgotten in the background while he went off in search of books himself. He’d managed to find several that piqued his interest, and once he formed a decent sized stack, he took them to a table that stood in the center of the room. 

He’d just opened the cover of a heavy, leather-bound book when he decided he couldn’t stand the Septon’s monotonous voice any longer. He drew in a deep breath, refraining from rolling his eyes. 

“Thank you, that’ll be all,” he said in one breath. The Septon seemed quite startled at the sudden dismissal, but shuffled off nonetheless. Content, Tyrion settled in with the book, losing himself in the content and paying no mind to the sound of the heavy library doors opening or the footsteps that crossed the room. 

“I thought I’d find you here,” came a familiar voice, and Tyrion looked up to see Joanna settling in a chair across the table. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be doing needlepoint, or poetry?” 

Joanna’s only response was to shrug. “I missed you at the feast last night,” she said instead. “Where were you?” 

“If I told you, your mother would kill me,” he replied, lowering his voice conspiratorially. She giggled, lowering her voice as well. 

“I’m glad I found you here instead of there.” 

“How are you finding Winterfell?” he asked, flipping a page in his book. 

“Not quite as many revels as King’s Landing,” she replied, shrugging. “But it’s homely.” 

“Homely,” Tyrion repeated, snorting a little. “I’m glad it’s treating you well.” 

“And how do you like Winterfell?” she asked in return. 

“The food was delicious,” he responded, then he continued in an even lower voice, “And the whores even more so.” 

Joanna covered her mouth to hide her laughter. 

“Were you looking for something?” he continued. 

“Entertainment,” Joanna said with a shrug. Then, leaning forward onto her elbows, she continued in a lower voice, “I’m hiding from my mother. She wants me to sit and read poetry with Myrcella and Lord Stark’s daughters.” 

“Well, if she asks, I’ll say I haven’t seen you,” Tyrion responded, turning another page in his books. Joanna dimly wondered if he was actually reading or not. “Though as much as I would typically support your endeavors in hiding from my sister, I do suggest that you return.” Finally, he looked up from his book. “It’s not safe to be wandering about on your own, even here among the Starks. Your father may trust them indiscriminately, but I do not – nor does your mother, for that matter, and perhaps for good reason.” 

“And what reason would that be?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. Tyrion crossed his hands over the pages of his book. 

“They are not us,” he said softly but firmly. “I think perhaps it is wiser for us to make our own judgement about the Starks rather than to follow your father’s judgement.” 

“Mother is paranoid,” Joanna scoffed, rolling her eyes. “And as much as you deny it, it’s one of the many traits you share.” 

“Still,” he said, “It’s probably best if you return to your mother’s chambers. Or, at the very least, to yours.” 

She considered this for a moment, looking him up down, and then she quirked her mouth. “Are you saying this just to be left alone?” 

“Of course not, I speak only out of concern for my dearest niece,” he responded, lips raising in a subtle smile. “Now leave me be.” 

Chuckling, she briefly placed a hand over his before standing. 

“Alright,” she sighed dramatically. She walked to the doors before briefly turning back. “But if I die of boredom in my chambers, the blame will be on you.” 

“Indeed,” Tyrion chuckled quietly, and turned his focus back to his book.


	4. Scenery

More often in the week that followed, Joanna found herself leaning against the fence, watching the boys and men spar on the training grounds. With or without Desmera by her side (though usually with) she would bundle herself in her warm cloak and gloves and brave the Northern chill to watch them train. Ostensibly, it was to support her brothers as they learned swordplay, though she was sure that many were aware that she came primarily to ogle the men who were of an age with her. 

Robb Stark always seemed quite aware of her gaze, but his swordplay never suffered for it. He seemed to ignore her presence once the spar began, but once or twice she caught his eyes when he’d glance over in the midst of fighting. He may have fancied himself the sole focus of her gaze, but Joanna watched the fighting men indiscriminately. Though the training was primarily for her brothers and Lord Stark’s sons, once they’d finished their drills, the other men would challenge each other to a spar in a test of strength and skill. 

She did so enjoy watching them work up a sweat, especially the younger guardsmen who were aware of her gaze and unlaced their doublets to allow her a better view. 

“Joanna,” Desmera said, half-admonishing, but unable to hide the chuckle in her voice. “You stare at them like a starving dog stares at a piece of meat.” 

“They want me to,” she shrugged, not bothering to turn away from the men hacking at each other on the training field. Of the many pastimes available to her in Winterfell, this had to be her favorite. 

“It’s not appropriate,” Desmera insisted, tugging her away from the fence by the arm. Heaving a sigh, Joanna allowed herself to be pulled away. 

“What are we supposed to do now?” she huffed. Desmera linked their arms together, pulling her quickly through the courtyard and back into the keep. “You can’t expect me to read poetry for the rest of the afternoon, can you?” 

“Of course not,” she replied in a hushed voice, pausing their conversation for a moment as they passed someone in the halls. “You realize your chamber has a fine view of the training ground, don’t you?” 

Joanna stopped in her tracks, but Desmera tugged her along down the hallway, not breaking stride once. 

“You are a wicked woman,” Joanna cackled, hurrying to keep pace with her friend. “I wish I was half as clever as you.” 

Desmera truly was the perfect companion, Joanna believed; the moment they’d entered her chambers, she locked the door behind them so they would not be disturbed. There were two plush sitting chairs by the fireplace, and the girls dragged them across the room to the window, where they perched themselves with their elbows on the wooden windowsill. 

"The young Lord Stark sure is handsome, isn't he?" Desmera sighed. 

"Indeed," Joanna agreed, eyes cast over the training field. She watched the young men spar within the enclosure, following the hard lines of their bodies as they fine-tuned their technique with the sword. There was one in particular, though, on whom her eye lingered. He had only stepped into the training field once or twice while she was there, and otherwise kept quiet and to the side. Now, however, he seemed relaxed; Joanna smiled as she watched him laugh and spar with the others. "I like that bastard brother of his, too." 

"Joanna!" Desmera gasped. She cast a quick look at the locked door before sending a scowl over at the princess by the window. "You shouldn't say things like that," she scolded. 

"What?" Joanna huffed, rolling her eyes. "I didn't say I wanted to marry him. I just think he's handsome, that's all." 

"Still," she sighed, shaking her head. "Too often you forget to keep your mouth shut and incite your mother's ire. She wouldn't yell at you half as often if you thought before you spoke." 

Joanna knew she was right, and didn’t have anything to say. Instead, she folded her arms on the windowsill and set her chin upon them. She turned her attention away from Jon Snow and back to his legitimate brother. One day, she knew, she’d be married to a noble lord, probably somewhere in the south so her mother could still breathe down her neck. That day wouldn’t be soon, she hoped. For all that her father seemed to ignore her, he still protested whenever anyone so much as hinted that she might be married soon. 

She remembered, when she was Myrcella’s age, a rumor had sparked at court that she would one day be betrothed to Willas Tyrell. In the sewing circle that day, all her companions told her how handsome they’d heard he was, how gentle and kind. Certainly not a knight in shining armor, not since he’d had his leg crushed by a horse, but they’d sung praises about how intelligent and scholarly he’d become. When Joanna has asked her mother that evening if the rumor was true, she was rebuffed. Of course not, Cersei had said. She would give her daughter something better than Highgarden. Joanna wasn’t sure how much better it could get. It wasn’t like she was ever going to become queen. 

Her thoughts had drawn her attentions away from the sparring men, but they were interrupted when a knock came at the door. 

“It’s Queen Cersei, my lady,” called the guard. Joanna sighed, but didn’t move from her spot. 

“I’m dressing!” she called back. Desmera sighed softly, shoving Joanna’s shoulder before standing from her seat. She crossed the room and unlatched the door, dropping into a curtsy once it swung open. 

“My Queen,” she said, eyes to the ground. Cersei stepped past her without acknowledging her. 

“Joanna,” she said, standing in the center of the room and waiting for her daughter to turn and acknowledge her. Joanna turned right away. “It’s been brought to my attention that you haven’t been attending needlepoint.” 

“You say attending as though I _have_ to go,” Joanna frowned, mouth pinched. Cersei blinked down at her. 

“You do _have_ to go.” She held up a hand when Joanna opened her mouth to protest. “Being here is not a break from the court; this is merely a court of a different kind. You have to be sociable with the Starks. I heard that you had taken well to Lady Sansa, what happened?” 

Handsome, sweaty, fighting men is what happened. Joanna clasped her hands together, remembering what Desmera said about thinking before she opened her fat mouth. 

“I will join Myrcella and Lady Sansa in sewing tomorrow,” she replied, deciding to take the direct route to preventing her mother from growing angry. 

“Good. I hope Eglantine has something good to say tomorrow.” 

“She will, Mother.” 

Without another word, and hardly another glance, Cersei swept out of the room again. Joanna slumped back in the chair. She did feel bad about hardly spending any time with Sansa, as the girl was sweet and was truly a good companion. Still, she thought, casting a look out the window at the training grounds, she would miss watching the young men spar. 

But, Joanna had said that she would join the other girls tomorrow. Until then, she would make herself comfortable by the window sill and ogle the men, trying to memorize how they looked so she could think about them when she was bored. 

* * *

Joanna tried to enjoy needlepoint. She began with a little design, something that she thought was progressing fairly well with her meagre skill. She had briefly entertained the idea of attempting to embroider a shirtless man, chuckling to herself as she imagined the outrage on her mother's face, before deciding that her talent was not quite enough for such a picture to be legible. For the first little while, she listened as the other girls talked, still sore that she wasn’t allowed to go out and walk around and enjoy Winterfell’s scenery. Not wanting her frustration to bleed through her words at the girls, who didn’t deserve to have it directed at them, she opted for once to keep her mouth shut.

Until, of course, the gossip began. There was nothing Joanna loved more than gossip, but she didn’t quite know how to react when it was about her. 

“Joanna,” said Sansa, her voice pitch conspiratorially low as she scooted forward in her seat. She had waited for Eglantine and Mordane to step to the side to begin speaking. “I heard my brother Robb talking about you with his friend Theon Greyjoy.” 

“Oh?” said Joanna, keeping her tone carefully neutral. “And what did he say?” 

“They think you’re pretty,” Sansa replied eagerly, chittering like it was the most exciting thing she’d heard in an age. “Theon said other things,” she scrunched her nose briefly, “but Robb said he thought you were good-natured.” 

_Good-natured,_ Joanna thought. She had been called many things by young men, but good-natured was certainly a new one. Still, she wouldn’t complain – she had been called far worse things by slighted young men who’d been denied her kiss. She wasn’t stuck on that comment though; They thought she was pretty. She had been called pretty by countless people, and whether they thought it was true or not had never mattered to her. But now someone that Joanna liked thought she was pretty, and she felt warmth rise in her cheeks. 

“He really said that?” she asked. 

Sansa nodded. “He said that you were very kind when you spoke with him. When did you speak with him?” 

“No,” Joanna said, shaking her head. “He…” She paused, clearing her throat and trying to appear blasé. “He said I was pretty?” 

“He said you were beautiful,” Sansa corrected with a grin. “Theon said...said something vulgar about you, but that was when Robb said that you were beautiful and kind.” 

Then Myrcella giggled and the warmth immediately left Joanna’s cheeks. She looked down at her embroidery and pretended to find it much more interesting. 

“Are you going to marry Robb Stark?” she asked, bouncing slightly in her seat. 

“Of course not –” 

“Then we really would be sisters!” Sansa added excitedly. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Joanna said. She cast a glance over to Desmera for help. The other girl blinked, trying to think of what to say to get the girls to stop badgering Joanna, before setting down her sampler. 

“Princess Myrcella, you know your father would never allow it,” she said. 

“But Father loves Ned Stark,” Myrcella insisted. 

“But he loves your sister more, doesn’t he?” She picked up her needlepoint again, raising her eyebrows to show she’d made her point. “Fathers never like to lose their little princesses to marriage.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” she conceded, relaxing back in her seat again. 

“Oh, but it would be so wonderful, wouldn’t it?” Sansa sighed, returning her attention to her embroidery once more. 

“But if you went to King’s Landing and I stayed in Winterfell, we would never see each other,” Joanna pointed out. 

“I guess that’s true,” Sansa said. Arya, who had watched the exchange quietly and with a look of annoyance, finally spoke up. 

“Boys are stupid, anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a bit short, as we're still laying out characterization and passing time in Winterfell. More worthwhile stuff will start happening next chapter :)


	5. Hunt

It was three weeks into their stay at Winterfell that the hunt occurred. Joanna had become aware that the men were going on a hunt several days beforehand, and conspired with Desmera for what would occur before the day’s event. She made sure to be up before the sun, dressed and ready to head downstairs to the stables before she could be summoned for one thing or another. When Desmera joined her in her chamber, she dragged her over to the chest that contained her wardrobe and they dug through it until they found Joanna’s riding habit.

Desmera braided her hair, pulling it back so it wouldn’t get tangled in the wind, then clasped Joanna’s heavy riding cloak over her shoulders. Kissing Desmera’s cheek to thank her, Joanna left her chambers and hurried down to the courtyard, hoping that the hunting party hadn’t left without her. Servants and stable hands were bustling everywhere, preparing horses and food for the hunting party. Joanna was searching out her father, keen on getting his permission to accompany him as quickly as she could, lest her mother notice her somehow and demand that she return inside. 

“There’s my riding partner!” came the booming voice of her father, and Joanna broke out into a grin. He opened his arms to invite her into a hug, kissing her hair once he had her in his embrace. Robert was not a doting father, and though he loved his children, it wasn’t often that Joanna had the pleasure of his attentions, least of all his affection. He called for a horse to be saddled for her, and let his heavy arm rest around her shoulders while they waited. 

“What are we hunting today, Father?” she asked, beaming up at him. 

“Boar, I think,” he replied. “But they say all manner of beast lives in the Wolfswood. There’s no telling what we might catch.” 

The way he spoke with her was almost as if he were telling a spooky story to a child. Part of her found it endearing, that he still regarded her as his little girl. Part of her found it annoying. When her horse arrived, he left her to mount his own stallion. She pulled herself onto the back of the horse, straightening her skirts around her. 

“Come to watch the hunt, sister?” Joffrey asked, approaching upon his own horse. Joanna had to physically refrain herself from rolling her eyes or blanching in repulsion. 

“Watch,” she agreed, “and perhaps participate.” 

Joffrey scoffed, as expected, and stuck his nose in the air haughtily. “I don’t expect you’ll catch very much.” 

“We’ll see who is the better marksman,” she replied, swiftly moving her horse away from him and across the yard before her younger brother could antagonize her further. 

She’d been accompanying her father on hunts for several years, since she was about eleven or twelve. Her mother wasn’t fond of her going off with the men, didn’t want her around their drink and language. Robert, however, was glad to share his love of hunting with one of his children, since Joffrey at the time was considered too young to come with them, and it had quickly become something that they did together. She couldn't go on each hunting trip, as Cersei often knew of them beforehand and stopped Joanna from going one way or another. These days, it often took effort and planning for Joanna to go, and it usually involved her putting herself as close to her father as possible. Robert was the only reason that Cersei allowed Joanna to go; he was the King, and he got what he wanted. Joanna, in turn, did too. 

“Come on, boys! Let’s go kill some boar!” 

With a smile, Joanna kicked her horse and hurried to the front of the party, falling into step near her father. He rode next to Ned Stark, joking with him and telling stories of the past. Her father had always loved the Starks, had always spoken highly of the family. In turn, Joanna held the family in rather high regard, despite having never met them before now. Her mother had taught her to be mistrustful of the world around her, to be wary of all who weren’t family. In general, Joanna heeded her advice, as it was fairly sound. In the world they lived in, there was little worth in trusting those who weren’t your family. But she had heard her father’s tales of his youth with Ned Stark, and she knew her history. Ned was a brother to Robert in all but name, and that made them family. That made them trustworthy. That was what she believed. 

Turning her attentions from her father and Lord Stark ahead, she looked over at Lord Stark’s sons, his trueborn and his bastard, as well as the Greyjoy ward that was their companion. They were laughing together about something or the other, but what intrigued Joanna the most were the pups trailing after their horses. One was scruffy, brown and grey like a true wolf, and the other was bright white with piercing red eyes. 

They must have noticed her attentions, as they paused their conversation and turned to her instead. 

“Are those wolves?” she asked, steering her horse closer. 

“Aye,” Robb replied with a nod of his head. “Direwolf pups.” 

“Direwolves?” she frowned. “I thought they were extinct.” 

“There are none south of the wall, except these,” he responded, beckoning to the pups at their heels. “Each of my brothers and sisters has one.” 

“Is this some Northern tradition I've never heard of?” 

“We found them last month on a ride,” he explained, chuckling at her confusion. “Their mother had been slain by a stag.” 

“I suppose they’ll be helpful on the hunt,” she said, staring down at the wolves again. They were young still, clearly, but growing larger. They no longer had the look of a pup, with floppy ears and too-large feet; by now they had grown to be of a similar size to the hunting hounds, though it was clear that they still carried adolescent energy. 

“Do you hunt, my lady?” the Greyjoy lad asked. She shrugged a shoulder. 

“I try,” she said, laughing. “But I do love to watch.” 

As though on cue, the hounds caught a sent, darting through the woods howling and barking. The party followed, kicking their horses into a gallop. Joanna, who loved to ride more than she loved to join the hunt, was happy to join in their revelry. 

In general, she didn’t participate in the hunt as much as watch. She enjoyed the exhilaration of the chase, but had very little desire to feel the thrill of a kill. She was not skilled with a crossbow and had only a basic understanding of archery, and the only hunting knife she’d ever received (as a present from her father on her sixteenth birthday) was more of an ornament than an actual tool. Still, she found tagging along to be wonderful entertainment. 

They spent the better part of the morning unsuccessful, chasing scents the hounds picked up or in pursuit of a boar. Most of their success came from lesser game, pheasant or rabbit. Once, during a brief reprieve in a clearing, her father beckoned her over, motioning for her to dismount. When she did, sidling up beside him, he handed her a crossbow. She was startled at the weight, and fumbled with it for a moment. 

“What is it?” she asked, confused. He put an arm around her shoulders and pointed through the woods, directing her eye to a small rabbit sitting, unaware, at the base of a tree. 

“That one, there,” he said. “Let’s see if you can make your first kill.” 

Surprised, she looked between her father and the crossbow. “I’ve never…” 

“Robb!” Lord Stark called, beckoning his eldest over from where he was standing with his brother and the Greyjoy lad. Robb approached, a questioning look on his face. “Princess Joanna needs instruction with the crossbow.” 

“Of course,” he replied, approaching further. He held the bottom of the crossbow, supporting most of its weight as he explained to her how to hold it properly. Once she’d managed to heft it up properly, she lowered her head to aim. Robb moved to stand behind her, placing one hand on her shoulder and reaching around her to help support the weight of the end of the crossbow. 

It took her a moment to aim, squinting one of her eyes to try and improve her vision. Once she felt sure she had aimed directly at the rabbit, she pressed down on the trigger. The crossbow recoiled into her shoulder, sending her back thumping into Robb’s chest. He stepped away immediately, but Joanna’s attention was on the rabbit. The bolt had landed just next to the rabbit, which startled and scampered off into its burrow. 

“Good shot!” the King delighted, clapping a hand onto her shoulder. 

“But I missed,” she frowned, attention on the spot where the bolt had landed uselessly. 

“Aye, but you were close,” he insisted. “We’ll make a marksman of you yet – and a damn fine hunter, too.” 

He took the crossbow from her hands, handing it back to his squire. Another squire had run off to retrieve the bolt. Their hunt continued for another hour or so until the King decided that they were hungry, and they found yet another clearing in which to take their luncheon. Joanna pulled off her leather gloves, tucking them in her belt. The servants spread out blankets on the grass, serving them plates of venison and last night’s veal. Joanna took a seat with Lord Stark’s sons, sitting beside them and their Greyjoy friend. 

“Are you enjoying the hunt, Princess?” Theon Greyjoy asked, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. 

“Oh, I am,” she replied. “Though I’m afraid we won’t be having boar for dinner tonight.” 

“And how are you finding the North?” Robb asked. 

“Wonderful,” she replied with an easy smile. “It’s a lovely country. Very quiet, compared to King’s Landing.” 

Robb responded, but Joanna quickly stopped listening, instead watching his bastard brother. He sat with them, but while she was there, he didn’t say a single word. She wondered why, but for once, wasn’t tactless enough to interrupt and ask. Her eyes traced his face, unaware of her gaze on him, before she remembered that she was supposed to be engaged in conversation and turned back to Robb and Theon. They had started talking to each other about the creatures that lived in the Wolfswood. 

“Have you ever seen a bear?” Joanna asked, thrilled and curious. 

“Once,” Robb nodded, leaning back on his hand. “They’re not as scary at a distance. She had her cubs with her and wasn’t keen to fight.” 

“Sounds incredible,” she sighed, imagining she could do such fun things as go riding in the forest. Times in which she got to ride in the Kingswood, aside from accompanying her father on a hunt, were few and far between. More often than not, her mother kept her confined to the Red Keep, scarcely allowing her out of her chambers unaccompanied. 

“It was,” Robb agreed with a nod. “They’re not often out in –” 

“Robb! Jon!” Lord Stark called. All of their attentions turned to him, but he said nothing more to them, instead only mounting his horse. Robb and Jon, quickly understanding that it was something urgent, followed suit. The three men dashed off through the forest, accompanied by a rider who wasn’t part of their party. Theon hurried after them, and Joanna stood. 

“What’s going on?” she asked, walking over to her father, who was being helped onto his horse. 

“There’s been an accident at the keep,” he replied gruffly. The servants quickly cleared up the food and blankets, hurrying to ready everyone’s horses for the trip back. Joanna’s horse was ready almost immediately, and she kicked her horse to keep pace with her father. 

“What sort of accident?” she asked, heart pounding beneath her ribcage. The horses of the Starks were already out of sight. 

“I dunno,” he replied, distracted. “Something with one of Ned’s boys.” 

She was quiet for the rest of the ride through the woods and to Winterfell. The keep was buzzing with activity, but muted somehow, as though everyone was busy but not saying a single word. Her father marched to the hall, Joanna trailing meekly behind. Her mother and younger siblings were already in the hall, Myrcella crying into her mother’s side. 

“What happened?” Robert asked, voice rough. 

“The second youngest,” Cersei replied softly, distracted. “He was climbing; they say he fell from a tower.” 

“Is he alive?” Joanna asked softly, one hand over her heart. 

“For now,” Cersei replied, eyes low, voice so soft that Joanna hardly heard. She was vaguely aware of Joffrey entering the hall behind her, grumbling lowly about the hunt being cut short. She stepped to the side, continuing to avoid her brother just as she’d done during the hunt. Myrcella sniffed, rubbing her nose weakly. 

“Come here, sweet girl,” Robert said, beckoning Myrcella away from her mother’s arms. Cersei tried to hold on, but Myrcella slipped away and folded into her father’s embrace, burying her face in his massive belly. Joanna wished she could cherish the moment more, seeing her father being tender with her siblings as he so rarely did, but she couldn’t bring herself to be anything but numbly aware of her surroundings. She sat down heavily on the bench of the table, slumping against the back of it. 

Desmera sat down beside her, taking Joanna’s hand in both of hers. Scooting close, she leaned her head down on her shoulder, and Joanna rested her head on top of hers. They sat closely for several moments, before Robert released Myrcella and instructed that they all return to their chambers and freshen themselves up for dinner. Cersei reached out and pulled Myrcella to her side again, guiding her and Tommen out of the room, beckoning for Joffrey to follow her out. Joanna was left in the hall. 

“Go on,” said Robert. Desmera stood, guiding Joanna through the halls and up to her chamber by the hand. 

“Isn’t it terrible, Mera?” Joanna sighed, letting her riding gown slide off as Desmera untied the laces. “And to think, it had been such a lovely morning.” 

Desmera stripped Joanna down to her shift, tossing the gown over the side of the trunk that contained her wardrobe. Joanna trailed over to her bed, slipping underneath the blankets and furs. She sank into her pillow with a heavy heart. 

“Would you like me to leave, princess?” Desmera asked, standing with her hands clasped in front of her. Joanna thought for a moment. 

“No, Mera. Join me.” 

Desmera smiled at her friend’s request, tugging off her boots and leaving them at the foot of the bed before crawling beneath the covers alongside the princess. They turned on their sides to face each other, and Joanna sighed. Considering for a moment, she pulled her friend close, curling her arms around her and resting her head on Desmera’s ample breast. Desmera pulled Joanna close, running a hand over her dark hair. 

“It’ll all be okay, princess,” she said softly. “You should rest. I’ll wake you in time for supper.” 

Joanna didn’t imagine that she’d be very hungry for the rest of the day. But, still, she obliged Desmera’s suggestion to sleep. Suddenly all of the fun she’d had that morning seemed dull and unimportant, and all of the riding had made her tired instead of exhilarated. Head pillowed upon Desmera’s chest, she drifted in and out of sleep, feeling empty.


	6. Godswood

All of the Baratheon children took their supper in their mother’s chambers that evening. Desmera had long since woken Joanna, and was re-braiding her hair when Senelle, Cersei’s chief maidservant, came knocking at the door. She was led to Cersei’s chamber to find all of her siblings already there. Joanna assumed that the table in the room was put there upon special request, as there was hardly enough room for it. 

Once she had sat, Cersei reached across the table to hold one of Joanna’s hands. 

“You didn’t join us in my chamber,” she said, running a thumb across the back of her hand. The way Cersei spoke sometimes, it was difficult to tell how she was feeling. Joanna couldn’t glean anything from her mother, and took a moment to respond. 

“I wanted to retire before dinner,” she replied. “I was tired from the hunt.” 

The curl of Cersei’s lip gave away her emotion, but that was no surprise. Joanna knew well just how much her mother disapproved of her accompanying her father on his hunts. 

“That was a pitiful hunt,” said Joffrey. He leaned back in his chair haughtily, wiping his mouth with his napkin. Joanna bowed her head, hoping to avoid his attention. In times when their mother wasn’t around, she could let him get her riled up, because she could spit insults back at him. But in the company of their mother, she had long since learned to keep quiet. That was generally what Cersei wanted of her, anyways. “Those Stark boys hardly have true aim. And those beasts of theirs scared away any game before we could shoot it.” 

“You’re just angry because they caught pheasant and you caught nothing,” said Joanna. Immediately, she regretted her words, knowing that with her mother’s sour mood lately, it would be all the easier to trigger her temper. She kept her head bowed and her eyes low, picking at her food. The less combative she looked, the more likely Cersei was to ignore her words. 

Joffrey was not so easy to placate. 

“Any fool could catch a pheasant,” he hissed. She could feel the vitriol in his gaze even without looking up from her food. Still, she dutifully kept her mouth shut, as did the others who all knew better than to interrupt Joffrey when he’d found something to rant about. “It was a mercy that the hunt ended so quickly. Those Stark boys could never keep their dignity otherwise, unless they butchered those beasts of theirs and served those up for supper.” 

Once Joffrey had quieted, the dinner continued for several moments uninterrupted. The only sound in the room was the flicker of the fire in the fireplace and the scrape of silverware on the plates. Joanna staunchly kept her gaze averted from everyone in her family, trying to tune out their presence in order to make it through the rest of the dinner. All she had to do was wait until her mother had finished eating, shuffle around her food so it looked like she’d eaten, and then she could leave. 

“It’s so terrible what happened to Bran,” came Myrcella’s sweet voice. Joanna’s gaze finally rose away from her plate to her younger sister. She didn’t seem all that interested in her food, either. 

“It’s not terrible,” Joffrey countered, rolling his eyes. “It was to be expected. Such a feeble boy could never have the strength to be climbing that tower. He was a fool.” 

Joanna failed to resist the urge to slam her fork back onto the table. 

“How dare you say such things,” she hissed, glowering across the table at her brother, “about a boy on the edge of death.” 

“It’s true,” Joffrey shot back hotly. “He was a fool for climbing the tower and it’s his own fault he fell. He deserves to die for making such a mistake –” 

Joanna shot to her feet, her seat colliding with the bed behind her, and reached across the table to box Joffrey around the ear. His hands shot to his ear with an angry howl, but Joanna never got the chance to feel the satisfaction set in. Cersei had stood as well and grabbed Joanna by the arm, pulling her out of the chamber and through the hall. She knew immediately that they were headed in the direction of her father’s chambers, and Joanna could feel her mood sinking lower and lower the further they walked. 

Cersei entered Robert’s chambers unannounced. They found him sitting at his desk with a goblet in hand, doublet undone. Joanna had the presence of mind to faintly be glad that he wasn’t abed with a whore when they walked in. Cersei’s hand tightened around her arm. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Robert asked. 

“She hit Joffrey,” Cersei explained tightly. 

“He deserved it!” Joanna huffed, but was promptly ignored by both of her parents. 

“What do you want me to do about it?” he asked, then drained the last of his drink. “They’re your children.” 

“You taught her this behavior, you punish it.” 

“I haven’t taught her a damn thing.” Without allowing Cersei to respond, Robert turned to Joanna. “Why have you hit him?” 

“He was saying horrible things. He deserved it!” 

“He deserved no such thing,” Cersei hissed, but Robert raised a hand to silence her. 

“I hate him,” Joanna continued, barely resisting the urge to stomp her foot. “ _I hate him!_ ” 

"He's your brother," Robert grunted. 

"I don't care," Joanna huffed. "I hate him. He's terrible and I wish he were dead. I wish he'd fallen from the tower instead of Bran." 

He words were punctuated by a sharp slap, one which sent her stumbling back. Cersei lowered her hand slowly and Joanna brought a hand up to nurse the wound. She looked up at Cersei with wide eyes. 

"Mother..." 

"Never say that about your brother again," she seethed. The hurt on Joanna's face darkened to anger. 

"I hate all of you," she retaliated thickly, whirling around and storming out of the room, slamming the chamber door behind her. Cersei turned her narrowed eyes to Robert. 

"This is your fault," she hissed. 

"My fault that you gave her your temper?" 

"She swings her fists at the slightest provocation like you do," Cersei spat. 

“Children hit each other, it's what they do.” 

“Joanna is not allowed to go on hunts with you. Every time, she returns unruly. You turn her into you.” 

"Get out of my sight," Robert grunted, waving her off. He refused to look at her. She didn't say another word, instead whirling around and leaving the room as well. The door slammed once more as Robert poured himself another drink. 

* * *

Instead of storming back to her chambers, Joanna made her way out of the keep. The night air was cold and sharp, especially without the extra protection of a cloak, but she was all the happier for it. It was just the remedy she needed to cool her heated blood. She wandered around the edge of the courtyard, curling and uncurling her hands. She could still feel the sting on her palm from striking Joffrey, and the sting on her cheek from being slapped by her mother. The satisfaction and the humiliation balanced each other out fairly well. 

"Sneaking out?" 

The voice stopped her in her tracks, and she silently hoped to herself that she wouldn't find Lord Stark standing behind her. Turning, her shoulders relaxed slightly. It wasn't Lord Stark, but rather his bastard son, though Joanna remarked that their gruff voices were strikingly similar. She shifted on her feet, brow furrowed. 

"Are you going to tell?" she asked. He shrugged his shoulders limply. 

"Not if you don't want me to." 

"I don't want you to," she replied immediately. He gave a solemn nod. There was silence between them for a moment; Joanna wondered if it would be rude to turn around and walk away. 

"Is there a reason why you're wandering off?" he asked. 

"I hate my brother and I wish he'd never been born," she replied hotly. His eyebrows rose a hint. 

"Sounds childish," he said. 

"Well it's true." As soon as the words left her mouth, she remembered herself. The Starks were mourning, Jon included. He didn't deserve to be spat at because she was angry. She sighed, relaxing her shoulders and letting her clenched hands fall loose. "I'm sorry about your brother. It's terrible. If anything like that had ever happened to Tommen...I couldn't imagine." 

Jon bowed his head slightly, nodding. "Thank you." 

"What are you doing out so late, anyway?" 

"I was going to the Godswood." 

She looked between Jon and the keep that loomed over them. She didn't want to go back in and be locked, alone, in her room. "Can I come with you?" 

"If you like," he shrugged. 

They walked together in silence as they made their way through the courtyard and into the Godswood. What quiet sounds of the night had surrounded them before suddenly fell silent as they entered the wood; the only sound there was the quiet whisper of wind through the leaves and their shuffling footsteps on the ground. Jon sat at the pond, shoulders slumped. Joanna wandered through the trees, stopping finally to stare up at the crying face of the heart tree. It was a haunting sight, and the pale bark of the tree looked like it was glowing in the pale light of the moon. 

"There's a Godswood in the Red Keep," she said absently. "I've only been there once. The heart tree there is an oak, but it’s not as pretty as this one." 

She reached out to run a gentle finger over the white bark of the tree. 

"Who gave you that bruise on your face?" Jon asked suddenly. Joanna's hand fell away from the tree in shock. She turned to face Jon, only to find that he was still looking down at the still water of the pond. She reached a hand up to touch the sore spot on her cheekbone. She hadn't realized it had bruised. Jon must have noticed before and not said anything. Thinking back to her encounter with her parents, her hand fell away. 

"It's not important." 

She walked over and sat beside him on the rock that overlooked the pond. She sat so their shoulders were almost touching, unconsciously trying to leech from his warmth. He’d had the foresight to wear his cloak. If she didn’t think she’d be locked in her room the moment she returned, she’d go and get hers. Instead, she looked down into the pond, watching the moon’s reflection dance on the surface of the water. This was the most time she'd ever spent with Jon, and the only time they'd ever spoken. She hadn't been sure what to expect of him, but she was pleased with what she'd found so far. 

“How come you’ve never said much?” she asked him, keeping her voice quiet in the silence of the woods. “I always see you with your brother, but whenever I’m around you don’t say anything. Do I upset you?” 

“No,” said Jon, a ghost of a smile on his face. “Lady Stark doesn’t want my presence to offend you or any of your family.” 

“So that’s why you weren’t at the feast the first night.” 

Jon nodded. Joanna fiddled with her hands, trying to keep them from shaking in the cold. It embarrassed her that she’d forgotten her cloak, and that she was shaking so badly when Jon hardly seemed phased. Here in the godswood, the home of the Northern gods, with no cloak and frozen to the bone, she’d never felt more out of place. 

“Well, you don’t offend me,” she said finally. Her teeth chattered lightly. “In fact, I think I’d like it if you spoke more.” 

“You would?” Jon didn’t seem all too invested in the conversation, focus still down on the water. 

"They say my father has bastards all over the realm," she shrugged. "It's not their fault my father can't keep his cock in his pants - nor yours that your father didn't. I don't see why that should offend me. People like my mother can be uptight about that sort of thing, but -" 

She cut off abruptly, finally turning to look at Jon. He was hardly paying attention to her, staring down at the water but not really seeing anything. He was far too lost in his thoughts - and for good reason. It finally dawned on Joanna why he might have been coming here. 

"I'm sorry," she blurted, feeling like the biggest idiot in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Never mind a bastard offending her, she was making an ass of herself right in front of him. "You probably came here to pray. Do you want me to leave you alone?" 

Jon thought for a moment. His whole family was inside, keeping vigil over his brother, and where was he? Banned from Bran’s bedroom. He was sat in the cold of the godswood, the only place that Lady Stark couldn’t stop him from being, with only the princess for company. And it was true, he had come here to pray. He had come here because it was the one place in Winterfell where he was truly welcome. 

But it did feel nice to not be alone. After all, the place he wished he was most was Bran's bedroom, surrounded by his family. Perhaps Princess Joanna did ramble a bit, but it was nice to have someone sitting beside him. It made him feel like less of an outcast. If Princess Joanna wanted to keep him company, then Lady Stark was wrong about him, right? And yet, he couldn't detach himself from the notion that his very existence next to Joanna's was insulting. It wasn't his place to ask her to stay. 

"I don't want to inconvenience you, my lady," he replied. 

"Of course not," she said. "I don't want to be the one to inconvenience you." 

"You're welcome to stay." He looked down again, somewhat bashful. "I'm a bit...distracted." 

"You have every right to be," she said softly. She tilted her head slightly, eyes tracing his face, before scooting slightly closer. They sat in silence together for several moments. A soft rustle of leaves on the ground was the only sound that announced the presence of the direwolf. Joanna looked up as it approached, gasping quietly when she saw it nearing. 

"To me, Ghost," said Jon. He noted the way Joanna stiffened as Ghost passed. "He won't hurt you. Hold out your hand." 

Joanna did as he bade, however reluctantly, and offered her hand for the wolf to sniff. He regarded her with piercing red eyes before sniffing her hand. When he'd deemed her not a threat, he settled down at Jon's feet, resting his head on his paws. The howl of wolves no longer filled the air as it had earlier that evening, so Jon figured that Bran's direwolf had finally gone to sleep. The unnamed pup and all of his siblings had sat beneath Bran's window and howled all afternoon. 

"He's a beautiful creature," Joanna said quietly. "Does he mind you well?" 

"When he wants to," Jon shrugged. She was intrigued by the beast, cautiously reaching down to pet him. When he didn't react to her hands nearby, she ran her fingers through the soft fur on his neck. Jon took her distraction as a chance to examine her face from close quarters. He had seen the bruise from afar in the light of the courtyard, but in the moonlight it was difficult to see at a distance. With their proximity now, Jon could see that the bruise was darkening on her cheekbone. 

No commoner would dare lay a hand on a royal, so he knew that whoever had given her the bruise must have been close to her. If her brother had struck her, surely she would have ranted and raved about how much she hated him for hitting her, but she didn’t. When he asked, she had moved away from the subject. Lady Stark wasn’t kind to him, but neither she nor his father had ever laid a hand on him, or any of his siblings for that matter. Jon wondered if it was the King or the Queen who was responsible, but he didn't have the gall to ask. 

"Why was your brother climbing the tower?" she asked quietly, sitting straight again after giving Ghost one final scratch behind the ears. 

"Bran loves to climb," he replied. His smile was wistful and sad. "He's always had sure footing before. No one was ever worried." 

"I'm sure he'll be fine," she said. "I'll pray that the gods will make him better." 

Jon wasn't sure what kind of influence the gods of the south had on matters of the North, but he was sure that anything helped. A violent shudder shook Joanna's shoulders, and Jon suddenly realized that she hadn't brought a cloak. 

"Are you cold?" he asked. Joanna shook her head, but another shudder begged to differ. "You haven't got a cloak. You should have gone inside." 

"I'm fine," she denied. He noticed the way she clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. It made him chuckle. 

"You're shivering so bad you can barely speak. I'm sorry I kept you out here. You should go in before you freeze. It's late, anyways. I'm sure someone's missing you." 

"I suppose you're right." Joanna offered him a small smile before standing. She reached and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Goodnight, Jon." 

“Goodnight, Princess,” he said quietly, eyes following her as she stood. He watched her walk away from him, back towards the entrance of the godswood. Shortly before she disappeared from sight, she turned back to look at him over her shoulder. She gave him a small smile and raised her hand in a half-hearted wave before she slipped away through the gates of the godswood.


	7. Scheme

The week passed slowly. Following her confrontation with her parents, Joanna had been kept in her room, only allowed out for meals, once for needlepoint, and once to call upon Lord and Lady Stark. She’d actually been excited for needlepoint, glad that her mother was finally allowing her out of her chambers, but that joy turned to lead in her stomach when Sansa fell into tears halfway through and had to be lead out by her Septa. Winterfell had turned darker and more glum than it had ever been before. The presence of the royal party had brought a bright streak to the drab castle, a lightness that had now been stamped out. 

Leaving Winterfell had once been a prospect that Joanna dreaded, but now being here was starting to leave a bad taste in her mouth. She couldn’t have packed her clothes fast enough. The morning of their final day in Winterfell, Joanna had been collected for breakfast with her family, bundled up in a thick shawl with her hair loose. She didn’t say a word to her mother, only bade Tommen and Myrcella quiet good mornings as she took her place at the head table beside her mother. 

“Well,” said Jaime as he came to sit at the table, “It seems Ned Stark hasn’t changed his mind. He’ll be coming south with us tomorrow.” 

Cersei gave a thoughtful hum. With the fate of his young son in question the past week, no one had been sure if Ned Stark would turn his back on his acceptance of the King’s offer. 

“He won’t be in King’s Landing long,” she said. “I’m sure soon enough he’ll have to return to bury his son.” 

The other children at the table went pale. Myrcella set down her fork and placed her hands in her lap. Neither Jaime nor Cersei seemed to notice their behavior, and Joanna wanted to tell them to stop talking. If the topic was making her upset, she couldn’t imagine how her younger siblings felt. She tightened her grip on her fork and shoveled more food into her mouth to keep herself from talking. 

“Hopefully the King won’t make us all come back with him,” Jaime half-joked, then dug into his food once it was served. 

Joanna stared down at her plate, feeling a little sick. She continued to eat regardless, wary that any slight misstep might reignite her mother’s temper with her. Before too long, a new set of footsteps came down the hall and into the room, echoing despite their carrier’s small stature. Tyrion announced his presence in the room by calling out orders to the servants, asking for fish and beer and bacon. He stepped up to the high table, picking up Tommen and depositing the giggling boy further down the bench to make room. 

“Little brother,” Jaime greeted, turning. 

“Beloved siblings!” Tyrion replied with a smile. Cersei gave him a hard look, before allowing a corner of her mouth to rise in a hint of a smile as Tyrion pulled a plate of sausage closer. 

“Is Bran going to die?” Myrcella asked, leaning forward in her seat towards her uncle. The entire table seemed to hold its breath. Joanna paused in her chewing, waiting to hear Tyrion’s answer. He took a bite of sausage, looking between her and Tommen. 

“Apparently not,” he answered. She gave a pleased little smile at that, but Cersei’s body stiffened. She fixed Tyrion with a stony look. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The Maester says the boy may live,” he replied. He watched as Cersei and Jaime shared a look. Despite the happy news, the sickened feel in Joanna’s stomach never left. There was an odd tension at the table that made it worse, but she couldn’t decipher what it was. 

“It’s no mercy letting a child linger in such pain,” Cersei said finally. Tyrion rose his eyebrows and gave a gentle shrug. 

“Only the gods know for certain,” he said, chewing. He didn’t seem to feel the same tension that the rest of the table did – or if he did, it certainly didn’t affect his stomach. “All the rest of us can do is pray. The charms of the North seem entirely lost on you.” 

“I still can’t believe you’re going,” said Cersei, muscles a little looser with the change of subject. “It’s ridiculous, even for you.” 

Joanna’s head snapped up. She felt thoroughly out of the loop, a feeling she did not enjoy. “Going where?” 

“The great Wall of the North,” Tyrion replied exaggeratedly. Cersei gave no reaction. “Where’s your sense of wonder? The greatest structure ever built, the intrepid men of the Night’s Watch, the wintery abode of the White Walkers!” 

He lowered his voice dramatically at the end, turning towards Tommen to make him laugh. Joanna looked down and considered this. That wasn't fair. Her uncle got to continue his adventure in the North but she and the rest of the court had to return to King's Landing? 

“Tell me you’re not thinking of taking the Black,” said Jaime. 

“And go celibate?” Tyrion asked in disbelief. “The whores would go begging from Dorne to Casterly Rock!” 

Even that made Joanna chuckle. Despite his size, her uncle did seem to have a way with the whores. She wasn’t sure if it was his charming personality or his money. 

“No,” Tyrion continued with a small chuckle. “I just want to stand on top of the Wall and piss off the edge of the world.” 

“Children don’t need to hear your filth,” said Cersei lowly, never mind that all three of her children present were giggling. She stood from her seat. “Come.” 

The three had no choice but to obey, dutifully rising despite unfinished breakfasts and following their mother out of the room like ducklings. As she left the room, throwing a quick look over her shoulder at her uncles at the table, Joanna began to scheme. 

* * *

With her children safely back in their chambers, Cersei made a beeline through the castle towards Bran Stark’s room. Ned Stark and the rest of the Stark family had since left, begrudgingly continuing their day-to-day life. Catelyn Stark had remained. She hadn’t come down for any meals, and rumor was she slept in the chair beside her son’s bed. After what Tyrion had said at breakfast, Cersei had wanted to see the boy for herself. 

She passed through the guarded door without pausing, not bothering to announce herself to ask permission to come inside. Catelyn Stark noticed immediately. She stood, setting down the prayer wheel she had been crafting. Cersei gave her a hint of a smile. 

"Please," she said softly. Lady Catelyn looked down at her clothes; she wore only her dressing gown, and her hair was unbound and unbrushed. 

"I would have dressed, Your Grace..." 

"This is your home, I'm your guest," Cersei replied, stepping further into the room. She paused at the foot of the bed, looking down at the prone form of Lady Catelyn's son. He was peaceful, looking almost as though he was sleeping. Part of Cersei hated that. All she could think of when she looked at him was looking up and seeing him peeking through the window, the delight of being with Jaime turning to stomach-turning fear upon being discovered. 

The boy looked tiny. The rise and fall of his chest was so shallow that it hardly moved the furs that covered him. Very suddenly, Cersei was brought back to the night Joanna was born; she remembered bringing the tiny bundle close just so she could hear each quivering breath. Every time the pause between breaths was too long, she'd felt her heart drop into her stomach. The mixture of hatred and lingering sorrow she felt when she looked at him made her clench her hands. She pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders, wrapping it around her like a shield. 

"There's nothing worse than when they're on the edge like this," she said. "And there's nothing you can do to help them...only wait, and pray. Joanna was born too early. The Maester handed her to me and told me that she wouldn't live long enough to see the daylight." She paused, closing her eyes. The memory was still so fresh in her mind. She still felt the choking misery of that night whenever she thought about it. "Forgive me. This must be the last thing you want to hear." 

"I didn't know," said Lady Catelyn softly. 

"I didn't sleep at all that night," Cersei continued. "Just held her in my arms...listened to each little breath, each tiny heartbeat. She was such a little thing. A bird without feathers..." She paused to gauge Catelyn's reaction, and saw that she was hanging off of every word. "I prayed to the Mother that she would live, but in the darkest hours I prayed for the gods to take her. I could not bear to know that she was suffering...that she was living in pain. I loved her too much to let her live in agony." 

Cersei eyed Lady Catelyn, whose focused had returned to the prone body of her young son. She was quiet for a moment, allowing the other woman to consider her words. And then she smiled. 

"But she was a fighter. I pray to the Mother every morning and every night that your son will be a figher, too." 

"Thank you," Lady Stark replied, hands held tightly in her lap. Cersei nodded once. She turned and left the room without another word, without another sweeping glance behind her. 

She was not a callous and unfeeling woman; she could sympathize with Lady Catelyn's despair. For the rest of her life, she would remember how it felt to be sitting with her firstborn in her arms, teetering on the edge of death; how frustrating it was to have just gotten something and almost have it taken away; how she wrestled with prayers of life and death and forgiveness; the anger and anguish she felt at herself and at Joanna. A small part of her felt glad that she knew what kind of pain that Catelyn Stark was suffering. Cersei knew that pain intimately. 

There was a nasty feeling of glee in her chest to know that Catelyn was suffering. Cersei was at the mercy of the boy’s memory if and when he woke, but she still had the upper hand. It was not an easy pain for a mother to handle, but Cersei had all of her children under her control. She had them all with her, safely guarded. Until the boy woke, that was her victory. 

* * *

Joanna knew that she didn’t have long to bring her scheme to fruition. She waited an appropriate amount of time for her mother to leave her chamber, before she cracked open her door. Ser Boros Blount, one of her father’s Kingsguard, was standing post at the door. He was there ostensibly to keep the King’s daughter safe, but in reality Cersei had him posted there under strict orders to prevent her from leaving without permission. 

“Ser Boros?” 

“Do you need something, Your Grace?” 

“I would like for you to take me to my father’s chambers.” 

He rose an eyebrow at her. “You know you’re not supposed to leave your room.” 

“It’s only to see my father,” she pouted, crossing her arms over her chest. “It’s not as though I’m running off to make trouble.” 

“Your mother will be angry if she hears I let you leave.” 

“So will my father, if he hears you didn’t let me see him.” 

Ser Boros was on the edge. Joanna gave him a pointed look, and that tipped him over. He sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. She can’t imagine it must be very fun to be at the mercy of the orders of someone half your age, but she wasn’t averse to using her influence when it could get her something she wanted. He stepped aside, allowing her to open the door fully and step out into the hall. 

“Don’t think I won’t take you to your mother if you try to run off,” he warned. 

“I promise I won’t,” she replied sweetly. 

Ser Boros walked beside her as they trailed through the halls to her father’s chambers. She was relieved to find two more Kingsguard were flanking his door, meaning that her father was inside. Now she just had to hope that he wasn’t drunk or with a woman. 

“Princess Joanna wishes to speak with her father,” Ser Boros announced. Ser Barristan knocked on the door behind him, opening it once a muffled shout replied. 

Joanna stepped into the room, closing the door behind her and leaving all three Kingsguard outside. Turning back, she found her father sitting at his desk once more, crown sitting atop a wide vase of wine. He threw back the rest of his drink, pouring himself another as he waited for her to address him. She rocked on the balls of her feet, curling and uncurling her hands as she tried to remember the plan she had come up with earlier. She had to go about this carefully, or else her father would dismiss her and send her away. 

“Father,” she began, keeping her tone light. “I’ve heard that Uncle Tyrion is going to the Wall when we leave tomorrow.” 

He didn’t reply, instead raising his eyebrows at her. She took a deep breath. 

“I won’t be any trouble. I won’t misbehave and I won’t wander off. I promise I’ll mind Uncle Tyrion very well.” 

Robert took another drink of his wine, then set the goblet down on the desk with a heavy clink. 

“You know,” he said, voice gruff, “every time you ask for something, your mother comes and yells at me.” 

Joanna figured. Cersei hated it when she went behind her back to Robert. He was the only one who had greater authority than she did with regards to their children, though generally he was content to only see them occasionally and let her take care of them the rest of the time. Still, even as a young girl, Joanna knew that Robert was the only way to undermine Cersei’s control. Even after all these years the same tactics still worked on him. She rushed forward, kneeling at his feet and taking hold of his hand, looking up at him with the most pitiful look she could muster. 

“Oh, please!” she said. “Please, please. I’ll never ask for anything else ever again.” 

He wheezed out a chuckle, which transformed into a full-bellied laugh. Joanna grinned, confident that she’d convinced him. 

“Get up,” he said, trying to catch his breath. She stood but didn’t release his hand, bouncing on her feet in excitement. “Fine, fine, if that’s what you want.” He sighed with a small shake of his head as he poured himself more wine. “Sometimes I wonder if pleasing you is more trouble than you’re worth.” 

It wasn't that Cersei revelled in Joanna's unhappiness, only that Joanna seemed to have grown into interests that her mother was steadfastly against. Robert could care less what Joanna wanted to do, so long as Cersei wasn't marching to his door to berate him for allowing her to indulge in her wild whims. Cersei would _hate_ this, truly, and would detest him for allowing it. But, he figured, with Joanna away, she could not pick fights with her brother or otherwise do anything to enrage her mother. If he granted her this, perhaps she would be content when she returned to King's Landing; she got into much less trouble when she was content, though keeping her satisfied frequently came at the expense of Cersei's temper. But he had a choice between appeasing Joanna and appeasing Cersei. He didn't believe there was a man alive in the world who could do both. 

With an excited squeal, Joanna threw her arms around his shoulders. He patted her back with a smile, then shooed her away. 

“Go on,” he said. “Go and pack your things before I change my mind.” 

“Thank you so much, Father!” she said, pressing a kiss to his hairy cheek before happily trotting off out of the room. 

With a heavy sigh, Robert poured himself more wine. He would need it for later, when Cersei found out. Everyone, and especially Cersei, liked to remind him that Joanna had gotten her personality from him. It was times like these that his respect for Jon Arryn grew tenfold. He felt a brief, fleeting feeling of pity towards him and Cersei both when he remembered himself at sixteen. But by the grace of the Seven, Joanna seemed to be the only one of his children who had inherited anything from him.


	8. Departure

Try as she might, Joanna couldn’t keep herself from shivering. Flurries of raindrops and snowflakes fell over the bustling courtyard, though the Northerners were nonplussed. She stood resolute, clenching her jaw to keep her teeth from chattering. If she couldn’t find it in her to whether the cold, then it was going to be a rough few weeks ahead of her. Desmera pulled Joanna’s cloak tighter around her shoulders, making sure her neck was covered by cloth and fur. 

“I’m fine,” said Joanna, gently pushing her friend away. Desmera pursed her lips. Since she had come to court with her brothers three years prior, the two girls had hardly been separated. All night and all morning, Desmera had fussed over Joanna. 

“Just making sure you’ll be warm,” she said in a small voice. “I wouldn’t want you catching cold before you return.” 

“Don’t worry about me,” Joanna insisted. “I’ll be back in King’s Landing before you can miss me.” 

Desmera let out a huff of breath, but instead of responding, pulled Joanna into a tight embrace. Joanna happily buried her face in her friend’s neck, reveling in her warmth and in the soft fur at the collar of her cloak. She hadn’t considered, before then, what it would mean to be away from her friend for a month. She had gotten so used to the luxury of being able to call Desmera to her bed if she had trouble sleeping, or if she didn’t feel like being alone. Having Tyrion for company would be nice, but not the same. 

“Thank you, Mera,” said Joanna softly. As excited as she was to get on the road, she was reluctant to let go, and not just because of the warmth she found in her friend’s arms. A familiar clearing of the throat behind them was what separated them at last. With a nearly inaudible sigh, Desmera pulled away. She gave Joanna a kiss on the cheek and squeezed her hands once before retreating. Joanna turned to face her Mother. 

“Ser Arys will be accompanying you to the Wall,” said Cersei, hiding behind her mask. She motioned briefly to the tall knight at her side, a member of the Kingsguard that Joanna had known since her youth. “He will keep you safe. The Wall is no place for a pretty girl like you. There are rapers and all manner of criminals.” 

It was a nice try on Cersei’s part to try and scare Joanna into changing her mind, but a fairly transparent one. Joanna was not to be swayed. She knew the dangers of going North to the Wall, but surely the men of the Night’s Watch knew the dangers of molesting a princess. Ser Arys or any of her Uncle Tyrion’s guards would have no qualms in teaching them the consequences. Even in the rough and wild North, she was swaddled comfortably in a cocoon of armed knights. 

“Would you thank Father for me again, Mother?” she asked sweetly. Cersei’s eye gave the smallest flinch. “He knows how much I wanted to go; It means so much that he let me.” 

“Of course, sweetling,” said Cersei, mouth set in a line. She pulled Joanna close by the shoulders, fingers gripping almost painfully tight as she pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. She lingered a moment, loathing to release her. Once she let go, Joanna would be out of her grasp again until she returned to King’s Landing. Softening her grip on her shoulders, she closed her eyes briefly to revel in the contact before pulling away. Joanna was regarding her with a confused look when she pulled away. Cersei hesitated a moment, then placed her hand briefly upon the soft skin of Joanna’s cheek before letting it fall back at her side. “Be safe,” she bade quietly. Joanna hadn’t even had the chance to reply before her mother walked away, crossing the courtyard to the wheelhouse where her siblings had gathered. 

Joanna shifted on her feet, eyes trailing after her mother. Her gaze quickly shifted to her siblings gathered by the wheelhouse. Joffrey stood, petulant, angry about something or the other, as always. Beside him were Myrcella and Tommen, meek in their elder brother’s presence. Joanna wished she could go over to hug them goodbye, but it wasn’t worth starting a confrontation with Joffrey. Sighing to herself, she turned to the knight beside her. 

“Have you ever seen the Wall, Ser Arys?” she asked. He stepped back as a stable hand presented her horse to her, saddled and prepared for her to ride. 

“I have not, princess,” he replied, helping to boost her to mount the horse. She settled herself in the saddle, arranging her skirts around her legs. 

“Then this shall be an adventure for us both, won’t it?” she grinned. 

“I suppose it will, princess.” 

Once he was sure that Joanna was steady in her seat, Ser Arys called to have his horse prepared and brought to him. Joanna swept her eyes over the courtyard idly, until her attention was caught on two brothers embracing across the way. When they pulled apart, they shared one last look before turning away. She was torn on who to watch, before deciding on the brother that was retreating. Robb Stark was even handsome from behind. Her eyes followed him as he sidled up beside his father, patting the snout of the horse as they said their farewells. 

After several moments, Robb seemed to become aware of her gaze on him. He turned, eyes sweeping over the courtyard before finally making contact with hers. She wasn’t ashamed at being caught staring, instead raising her lips in a small smile. To her delight, her smile was returned. He stepped forward as though he were about to start walking towards her, but her attention was broken away from him when Ser Arys sidled up beside her. 

“We should join the party bound for the Wall, my Lady, so they’ll know we’re ready to ride.” 

“Of course,” she replied, turning her head briefly to find Robb in the crowd again. She only had time to send him another quick smile before leading her horse towards her uncle and his guards near the gate. 

“Are you ready?” Tyrion asked, already helped onto his own horse. She nodded excitedly. 

“How long will it take to get there?” 

“At the most, two weeks,” he replied. “Are you up for that much riding?” 

Joanna fixed him with a suspicious look, raising an eyebrow. “Did my mother tell you to say that?” 

“Of course not,” Tyrion chuckled. “But I would hate for my riding partner to change her mind half way through our trip.” 

“Well,” laughed Joanna, “any time it seems I might’ve changed my mind, tell me what you told Tommen about wintery abodes and – what was it? – intrepid men, and my excitement will be renewed.” 

“Ah,” said Tyrion with a nod and a smile. “How could I forget? What my niece wouldn’t do to be surrounded by bold men.” 

She snorted. With anyone else, she would have been scolded, but Tyrion hardly cared. He knew her well – perhaps too well, given his comment. 

They left from Winterfell’s gates shortly thereafter, keeping with the court until they reached the end of Winterfell’s road. There, the two parties split: The King and the court turned southward towards King’s Landing; Joanna and Tyrion with their guards, accompanied by Benjen Stark, took the road North, bound for the Wall. 

She couldn’t help but look over her shoulder and watch as the long line of the court trailed away. As she swept her eyes across the scene behind her, she caught sight of Lord Stark and Jon Snow together at the end of the road to Winterfell. Two men bound in different directions, but both leaving home indefinitely. She hadn’t realized how much of a comfort it was to always know that, before too long, she would be returning to King’s Landing. She couldn’t imagine leaving her home and not knowing when – or even if – she’d be back again. She had no idea why anyone, Jon Snow especially, would want to leave their home and their family to go to somewhere like the Wall. 

But she had two weeks to worm it out of him. 

* * *

They rode all day, not even stopping to each lunch. Joanna had refrained from complaining about it, aware that she was surrounded by hardened men who were used to going without food in order to make good time getting to their destination. If her Uncle Tyrion was fine with it, surely she could be as well. By the time they’d stopped to make camp for the night, her stomach was growling and aching with hunger. 

It was late by the time they stopped, the last traces of light already leaving the sky. They made camp in the forest near a lazily flowing river, huddled around the fire for warmth. When dinner was finished, Tyrion reclined with a book. Joanna stood, stretching her legs after the long ride. She took a small walk around the perimeter of the camp to get the blood flowing, before spotting Ghost lying a few paces from the fire. She settled herself down within arm’s reach of the wolf, offering a hand for him to sniff. She wasn’t entirely sure the wolf trusted her, but he sniffed her fingers once before resting his head back on his paws and allowing her to bury her hand in his fur. 

“Sit,” came Benjen’s voice off to the left. “You’ll be fed.” 

He motioned for two men to sit between the two fires that had been started. They had joined the small party halfway through their ride, prisoners being escorted to the Wall by a recruiter. The recruited untied their hands. Joanna was just close enough to the fire to hear Tyrion comment on them. 

“Ah, rapers,” he said. “They were given a choice, no doubt: Castration or the Wall. Most choose the knife.” 

She fixed the recruits with an uneasy look, turning to ensure that Ser Arys was nearby enough to her. He was standing by the second fire with the Lannister guards, sipping from a wineskin and glancing periodically at his young charge. Joanna usually found the presence of all of the guards suffocating in King’s Landing, but here in the wild in the company of criminals, they were a comfort. Still, knowing that she would be keeping quarters with rapers on their journey to the Wall gave her an edge of unease. 

“Not impressed by your new brothers?” Tyrion continued. Jon looked down and away, but didn’t say anything. “Lovely thing about the Watch – you discard your old family and get a whole new one.” 

Joanna couldn’t imagine why Jon would want a new family. His sisters were lovely, and his brothers were kind. Nobody in his family tormented others for fun – at least, not to her knowledge. She wondered briefly to herself if every family had their own Joffrey. Surely not, she figured, as she couldn’t imagine who among her mother’s siblings would be so horrific – though she knew that Desmera’s brothers were infamous enough in the court to be known as Horror and Slobber. 

“Why do you read so much?” Jon asked, sounding defensive. Tyrion raised his eyebrows briefly, but didn’t look up from his book. Joanna didn’t think that he could possibly be reading while speaking at the same time, but then again, she never fancied herself as smart as her uncle. 

“Look at me and tell me what you see,” Tyrion replied. Jon fixed him with a hard stare. 

“Is this a trick?” 

“What you see is a dwarf,” he answered, finally looking up from the unread pages of his book. “If I had been born a peasant, they might have left me out in the woods to die. Alas, I was born a Lannister of Casterly Rock. Things are expected of me. My father was the Hand of the King for twenty years.” 

“Until your brother killed that king,” Jon put in quietly. He had managed to silence Tyrion, if only for a moment. There were several beats of silence between them. 

“Yes,” he said. “Until my brother killed him. Life is full of these little ironies. My sister married the new king, and my repulsive nephew will be king after him. I must do my part for the honor of my house, wouldn’t you agree? But how? Well, my brother has a sword and I have my mind, and a mind needs books like a sword needs a whetstone. That’s why I read so much, Jon Snow.” He flicked his eyes between Jon’s face and the pages. “And you? What’s your story, bastard?” 

Jon sucked in a deep breath. Joanna hoped she was about to hear the answer to the question that had been plaguing her all day. 

“Ask me nicely and maybe I’ll tell you, dwarf,” he answered. Tyrion chuckled. 

“A bastard boy with nothing to inherit,” he said, “off to join the ancient order of the Night’s Watch, alongside his valiant brothers-in-arms.” 

“The Night’s Watch protects the realm from -” 

“Ah, yes! Against grumpkins and snarks and all the other monsters your wet nurse warned you about. You’re a smart boy, you don’t believe that nonsense.” Jon’s silence made Joanna think that perhaps he actually did believe it. She wondered if Tyrion had come to the same conclusion. He picked up his wineskin from beside him and tossed it over the fire to Jon. “Everything is better with wine in the belly.” 

They sat in silence for a while, Tyrion finally able to delve into his book without interruption. Joanna wanted to speak with Jon, but she knew that he wouldn’t give her the honest answers she wanted with Tyrion present. She resolved to wait until Tyrion went to sleep, hoping that Jon wouldn’t go to sleep before she had the opportunity to talk to him. 

“He likes you,” said Jon. Joanna looked up at him with raised eyebrows, then down at the lounging wolf. 

“I would certainly hope so,” she replied with a small smile. “I’d fear for my fingers otherwise.” 

It was quiet, but Joanna managed to catch Jon’s quiet chuckle. He was sending her a hint of a smile, eyes trailing down from her to Ghost. Just as she opened her mouth to say something, her eyes flickered over to the other side of the fire where Tyrion was watching their quiet exchange. When they met eyes, she clamped her mouth shut. But Tyrion wasn’t an idiot. 

“Have to piss,” he said suddenly, closing his book and setting it to the side before standing. He made a point to take his time, stretching his muscles at length and sighing loudly before finally wandering away. Joanna’s eyes followed him for a moment, before she turned her attention back to Ghost. She slipped off her gloves, immediately transferring her hands from the warmth of her gloves to the warmth of the wolf’s fur. 

“Why are you going to the Wall?” she asked at last. Jon met her eyes briefly before looking down. 

“I don’t belong in Winterfell,” he answered. She didn’t reply, expecting him to continue. After a moment, it was clear that that was all he’d had to say. 

“And…you belong at the Wall?” 

“I have a chance to belong there,” he said. “There was nothing in Winterfell for me.” 

He was immediately defensive; it was clear to Joanna that others who’d asked him about this had not been so understanding. She shifted, tucking one hand beneath her to keep it warm, the other still curled in Ghost’s fur. 

“Your family is there,” she said after a moment. “Why would you leave them?” 

“Why would you go to the Wall when the rest of your family is going home?” he shot back. She rose her eyebrows in surprise, but he didn’t allow her a chance to respond. “I can still see my family sometimes. It’s better this way.” 

He pulled his cloak tighter around him and turned away from her slightly. She swallowed, guilt rising in her stomach. He hadn’t wanted to talk about it and she’d pushed anyway. Slowly, she pulled her gloves back on and held them together tightly in her lap. 

“It’s better that I didn’t go to King’s Landing with my family,” she said softly. “I think I’m often a thorn in their side. They’ll be happier to have a break from me. And besides, I’ve never seen the Wall before.” 

Jon shifted. He turned back towards her, if only slightly. 

“It’ll be my first time, too,” he said. She offered him a gentle smile, if only as a wordless apology. And, to her relief, it was returned.


	9. Bedfellow

Joanna had not realized that there existed a colder place than Winterfell. As they traveled towards the Wall, the air grew colder by the day. She had taken to dressing in every layer she'd brought with her, and still, somehow, the cold managed to seep through the fabric and under her skin. Riding had become more of a chore than ever, with cold wind whipping past their faces and her hands freezing around the reigns. The nights, however, were worse still.

Each evening, a fire was lit in each of the adjacent camps; the camp where she, Tyrion, and Jon were sleeping, and the nearby camp where the prisoners were kept. They gathered around the fires to eat their dinners late in the evening, chatting and telling stories. Tonight, Benjen Stark was regaling them with the story of his first ever trip beyond the Wall. The food warmed her insides, and Joanna took off her gloves to press her hands against the hot metal bowl. She stretched out her legs, both to give them relief from being astride all day and also so her numb toes would be as close to the fire as possible. 

Ser Arys, sat beside her, draped his white Kingsguard cloak over her shoulders. He seemed to be doing as bad in the cold as she was, though he was far less willing to show his weakness to the Northmen. 

"...damn near pissed my pants," Benjen Stark said, finishing a story that Joanna hadn't heard. She loved hearing the stories of the well-traveled men on the trip, but tonight she was cold and tired and hardly had enough presence of mind to eat her food before it got cold. Benjen lowered his head with a smile and allowed the others around the fire to badger and tease him over his story. 

"You laugh," he said, "but if you were in my position, you'd all have screamed like girls." 

Joanna had never screamed in terror in her life, but she granted Benjen Stark that perhaps whatever he encountered beyond the Wall in his story was truly terrifying. Jon had spent the last several evenings patiently answering all of her questions about what lived north of the Wall, and what was said to live there. He'd told her all about the White Walkers, and wildlings, and tales of giants. At first, she hadn't believed much of it, and asked Jon if he truly believed that all of those things were real, too. 

"My uncle Benjen has been beyond the Wall, and he believes in all these things," is what he'd said. She had nothing to say in reply, but it had shaken loose her conviction that they were all fairytales. 

Tonight, Joanna did as she'd done every night: she sat at the fire, listening happily to the conversations that surrounded her and occasionally participating. After dinner was through, the men drank a bit, then one by one began to retire to bed. Tonight, it was truly a struggle for Joanna to stay awake, the journey finally beginning to take a toll on her, but she kept her eyes on the mesmerizing flames and willed herself to stay awake. 

"You should get some sleep," said Tyrion, drawing her out of her thoughts with a hand on her shoulder. "If you fall asleep on your horse and fall off, I'll have trouble convincing the others to come back for you." 

She laughed. "I'll make sure to tie myself to my horse in the morning, then," she replied. "I'll be to bed before too long. Don't worry about me." 

Tyrion rose an eyebrow at her, perhaps glancing at Jon Snow before looking back to her once more. 

"Don't be up too late," he warned again, but turned and left to his bedroll on the other side of the fire. 

"He's right," said Ser Arys. He was shivering beneath his plate armor, which had grown dirty and dull during their travelling. "The riding is easier when you're well rested, Princess." 

"I'm fine," she huffed, exasperated. She just wanted them all to go to sleep already. She softened her voice with a sigh. "Allow me to stay at the fire a bit longer. It's so warm and I dread the cold of my tent." 

"Alright," Arys relented. "But keep my cloak with you for warmth." 

"Oh, please," said Joanna, already removing it from over her shoulders. "I couldn't ask that of you, my furs are enough." 

"I insist, Princess," he said with a smile. She pulled his cloak over her shoulders again to appease him and waved him off to bed. Joanna's pile of furs and blankets, deemed a bedroll, was quite dissimilar to the straw and feather beds she'd enjoyed on the way to Winterfell. But the Kingsroad between Winterfell and the Wall was far less populated, and there were many nights where they had no choice but to sleep in the wilderness. This was the least of Joanna's complaints, however; her little bedroll was sandwiched right between those of her Uncle Tyrion and Ser Arys. It made trying to have some privacy a nightmare. 

So instead, she waited by the fire until most of the men had gone to sleep. Jon did as he always did and volunteered to tend the fire into the night, leaving him and Joanna the last ones awake. They waited several minutes to ensure everyone around them had gone to sleep. Only then did Joanna scoot closer to Jon until their shoulders were touching as they sat by the fire. 

"Gods it's cold," she said quietly, teeth chattering. Jon chuckled. 

"How many cloaks are you wearing?" 

"Shut up." She laughed and knocked shoulders with Jon. It still was not the solitude that the pair may have preferred, being surrounded by sleeping people. But they kept their voices quiet, and made the most of what privacy they could get. They could talk to each other without fear of repercussion during the day, what with neither Tyrion nor anyone else in the Night's Watch party caring if Jon and Joanna were friends. It didn't allow them to talk quite as freely, however, and the two had an unspoken understanding to meet by the fire each night if they could help it. 

Joanna had considered, briefly, sneaking out of camp with Jon after everyone else was asleep. Aside from her reluctance to leave the warmth of the fire, she worried it may overstep a boundary that her Uncle Tyrion could not ignore. She suspected that Tyrion believed that she and Jon were growing too close. Not that she would ever let their late-night meetings go beyond talking - Joanna balked at the idea of revealing any part of her body to the cold air, or having to suffer rocks and twigs poking into her back the entire time. She wasn't quite _that_ similar to her father, but she wanted to avoid Tyrion's inevitable warning that she was growing too bold, and perhaps too foolish, in her friendship with Jon. 

(And besides, she thought, half of the fun of Jon was watching him squirm and blush under her gaze; bedding him so soon would have been far too easy.) 

She allowed herself to lean against his shoulder slightly, waiting to see if he would shift uncomfortably or move away, but he seemed to welcome her presence. 

"Do you have any more stories from Winterfell?" she asked. Jon hummed quietly in thought. 

"I'd have to think of more," he said. He waited a beat. "Do you have any stories from King's Landing?" 

"You don't want to hear about King's Landing," she replied with a frown. 

"I want to hear about you." 

She turned to look at him. He returned her gaze full-on, honest and bold in his request. She enjoyed his growing confidence around her, but not the idea of dredging up unhappy memories from her childhood at her peaceful place next to the fire. 

"I don't have many happy stories." 

"Not many, or none at all?" 

Fair. She sighed, thinking for a moment. Many of her happiest childhood memories were tainted, either by Joffrey or her mother, or sometimes by herself. She thought deeply, imagining King's Landing in her mind, the bright yellow of the sun and the bright blue of the sky, the warm wind that blew in from the sea. 

"When I was a child, my friends and I would go down to the bay and swim. We'd run away from our Septa during lessons and jump off from the docks. One time - " she interrupted herself with chuckle. "One time she chased us down and stood on the docks chastising us, and we pulled on her skirt until she fell in the water." 

They laughed together, sitting closer to the warmth of each other and the fire and imagining they were somewhere much different. 

"We used to play out in the water all day and come in red and blistered from the sun, and the Maester would bathe us in milk to soothe our skin. I even taught my brothers and sister how to swim..." here she trailed off, smile fading as another memory came to the fore of her mind. "When Tommen was three, he was so excited to finally swim without my help. We were laughing and playing together until Joffrey swam out and held his head under the water. I had to carry him back to the shore and turn him over until he threw up all the water. We haven't swum in the bay in a long time." She frowned, anger growing that she'd had to remember the event. "I told you I didn't have any happy stories." 

"I didn't ask for a happy one," he replied. "I just wanted to hear one about you." 

She turned to look at him again, frowning. His honesty was new to her and she didn't know how to react to it at all. She was used to trying to puzzle out peoples' intentions, to see the true meaning behind their words and actions. Jon Snow wore his heart on his sleeve, however, and somehow this intrigued her more. 

He was fully honest with her always, it seemed; he never lied, only went quiet when he didn't want to tell her something, which she respected and preferred over the alternative. There were some things she preferred not to bring up sometimes, too. He listened to her complaints about her family, about her mother, pointing out places where she was acting childish and places where he could sympathize. He had not had a good relationship with Catelyn Stark, the only person he could consider a mother, his entire life. He was the first person in her life who completely understood the alienation of a mother's overly-critical eye, or the yearning of approval from her cold opinion. He didn't brush her off or tell her that it was her fault for not acting a certain way. He understood that sometimes, with some people, just being _you_ was the problem in itself. 

Eyes tracing his face, she sighed. If only he could come back to King's Landing with her. 

"I've never met anyone like you," she said. Jon's boldness seemed to flee from him; he avoided her gaze and she thought she saw him flush slightly. 

"Is that a bad thing?" 

She was quiet, half to watch him fidget in anticipation and half to genuinely think about it. 

"No," she replied. 

The two sat in silence for several minutes, listening to the sound of the crackling fire and the occasional snores and grunts from the sleeping men that surrounded them. It was companionable, comfortable, and in the heat of the fire Joanna felt her eyes flutter and she leaned more of her weight on Jon. 

"You look tired," he said. Joanna started slightly. 

"I am." She rubbed her eyes. "I know my blankets will be cold." 

"We have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, Princess." 

"I know." Very reluctantly, she pulled herself to her feet. She placed a hand on Jon's shoulder, which he looked at for a long moment before looking up at her. "Rest well tonight, Jon." 

He said nothing, only giving her a small smile to send her off. She kept her cloaks pulled tight around her as she trailed over to her bedroll, keeping her steps light to prevent Tyrion or Arys from waking. Jon was sad to be rid of her company so soon. He reached over to Ghost at his side to wake him. 

"Go with her," he bade softly. The wolf looked between the princess and his master briefly, before standing and trailing behind Joanna. He overtook her quickly, reaching the bedroll several steps before she did. She turned back to Jon, surprised, and he busied himself with putting out the fire to avoid her gaze. Smiling gently, she took the final steps to join her furry bedfellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay! I ended up rewriting pretty much this entire chapter, which is good because I think it helps the pacing of the story a bit more, but because I had written so much I had to move some things around to try and keep the chapter lengths even-ish. So in this chapter especially as well as in the next few chapters you'll see quite a few differences (content wise but not necessarily plot-wise) from the original ff.net version. But hopefully they're better changes! And I'd love to hear what you think :)


	10. The Wall

The Wall was rather less spectacular than Joanna had made it out to be in her head. From afar, the first sight of the Wall looming on the horizon had filled her with wonder. Riding through the gates of Castle Black turned out to be something of a disappointment. And so much for the valiant warriors of the Night’s Watch as well. The men here were hardly different from those she saw in King’s Landing; the only difference was that the men here were colder. 

The run-down castle was cold and unwelcoming. She had hoped for a respite from the cold of the wilderness now that their traveling was done, but Castle Black was hardly better. Her blankets were thin and threadbare, and she’d had to use her cloak as a blanket until she could ask for her fur covers to be unpacked. Her only reprieve had been the warm bath she'd requested to clean herself from the filth of the road. In the nights, the harsh wind whistled through the cracks in the stone wall. She often found herself wishing that she had Ghost to curl up on her feet like he had some nights on the road, but she had hardly seen Jon or Ghost since their arrival at the Wall. That was perhaps the worst thing about being there. 

But Joanna found enjoyment in the small places. The men of the Night’s Watch were dirtier and older than those she watched in King’s Landing or in Winterfell, but Joanna enjoyed watching them all the same. She tuned out the sound of Tyrion and the Commander speaking, focusing on the fight in front of them. Truth be told, she got the most enjoyment out of watching one person in particular. Jon was well-versed with the sword, and Joanna got a thrill watching him fight. The master-at-arms taunted him as he fought, picking out different trainees in the crowd for him to fight, and inevitably beat. None of it seemed to phase Jon. He fought with a mastery, and a little bit of brutality that, quite fittingly, reminded Joanna at times of a wolf. She remembered Desmera chiding her for staring at the men in Winterfell like they were pieces of meat, but then, like now, she couldn’t bring herself to feel any shame. 

“Well, Lord Snow,” said Ser Thorne, once the fighting had stopped. “It seems you’re the least useless person here. Go clean yourselves up! There’s only so much I can stomach in one day.” 

“Charming man,” Tyrion noted. They watched the recruits retreat inside. 

“I don’t need him to be charming,” Commander Mormont said. “I need him to turn this bunch of thieves and runaways into men of the Night’s Watch.” 

“And how’s that going, Commander Mormont?” 

“Slowly,” the Commander admitted quietly. He reached into his belt, procuring a small roll of parchment. “A raven came for Ned Stark’s son.” 

“Good news?” Tyrion reached out to receive the note. “Or bad?” 

The Commander considered his answer for a moment. “Both.” 

“Then allow me to deliver it,” Tyrion said. “I was hoping to have a word with him, to commend him on his skill.” 

“Be my guest,” the Commander said. He nodded his head to Tyrion, and gave Joanna a quick acknowledgment before leaving them on the balcony. 

“What news is it?” Joanna asked. 

“If I had to guess, it would be about Bran.” 

She shifted on her feet, trying to be blasé. “Jon is a friend now, perhaps I should tell him.” 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t,” Tyrion said. “I think Lord Snow will have a hard enough time with his fellow recruits as it is without receiving visits from the princess.” 

Joanna frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?" 

"It means that you and Jon are of entirely different stations in life, now more so than ever since he's joined the Night's Watch." 

"So I should stop talking to him because of it?" 

"If you truly care for him and his future at the Wall, you will," Tyrion said sharply, and turned to leave her on her own on the balcony. 

* * *

Perhaps the most frustrating thing about her confrontation with Tyrion was that he was right. Joanna had known all along that her friendship with Jon was temporary, and had allowed herself to nurture affections for him regardless. It took her a day of sulking to accept that she was the only person to blame for how she felt right now. She had not come to the Wall for Jon, she had come to the Wall to see the Wall, to enjoy the first (and perhaps only) time she could get away from King's Landing without her mother and father and the whole court at her back. 

The following day, she asked Ser Arys to take her to the top of the Wall. Half a week she had been at Castle Black, and still she hadn’t seen what she had truly come to see. Warned that it would be especially cold at the top of the Wall, she bundled herself in two cloaks, keeping them pulled closely around her shoulders. 

The elevator to the top of the Wall was a wonder of machinery. For the entire ride, Joanna could only imagine the ways she would describe this to her sister and the other girls at court – especially to Myrcella, who had specifically requested to hear everything about the Wall so she could compare it to her books. Surely the highest spire of the Red Keep was not this high. The Wall had to have been one hundred feet taller, at least. 

“Think of the poor sods who had to spend their days building this,” Ser Arys laughed. “Thank the gods they built this instead of stairs.” 

Joanna smiled, the wind whipping past her face. She clung to the bars, peering out across the Gift. From this high, the men down in Castle Black looked like tiny ants milling about. At long last, they reached the top of the Wall, a small bell ringing to announce their arrival. 

At the base of the Wall, it was easy to forget that the entire structure had been crafted of ice. The ice was so solid and weathered that it resembled stone. Up at the top, where a new layer of ice formed every night, it was surprisingly clear. The floor and walls were all ice and snow, with only a wooden frame and roof overhead. 

The wind was blowing harshly, and she was glad that she had doubled up on her cloaks. Ser Arys trailed behind as she made her way down the length of the path, looking for a lookout opening where she could look out into the wilderness north of the Wall. She wondered what she would see out there, if she would be able to spot a wildling encampment in the woods, or if there would be nothing as far as the eye could see. 

Several steps down the path, they happened upon Benjen Stark, walking back towards the elevator. 

“Princess Joanna,” he greeted. “Have you come to enjoy the view?” 

“I have,” she smiled. He turned to point back in the direction he was coming from, motioning towards the break in the ice wall. 

“There’s the nearest lookout,” he said. “Careful not to get too close to the edge.” 

“Thank you, Lord Stark,” she smiled. Benjen fixed her with something of a bemused look before giving her a polite nod and continuing back towards the elevator. She and Ser Arys headed to the sentry spot where Benjen had directed them, and upon reaching the opening in the wall, she paused. There, standing with his gaze cast out over the forest, was none other than Jon Snow. Joanna motioned for Ser Arys to hang back and stepped forward. 

With careful steps, she sidled up beside Jon, looking down the side of the Wall. The white side of the Wall blended into the white snow on the ground, and it made it hard to discern just where the Wall ended. Ahead of them was a wide expanse of forest, and white peaks rising far in the distance. 

“That’s a long way down,” she said quietly, amazed. Jon turned to her briefly, looking her up and down, before returning his attention to the wide expanse in front of them. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you up here.” 

“I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.” Starting to feel dizzy from the height, she stepped back from the ledge, seating herself on the stool next to the fire. “I’m glad I did, though. I was hoping I’d see you at least once more before I left.” 

He stepped down from the ledge as well, crossing to the fire and reaching out his hands to keep them warm. 

“Well?” Joanna asked, cocking an eyebrow up at him. “Is the Night’s Watch all you hoped it would be?” 

Jon seemed to take a moment to consider his answer. “Not exactly.” 

“Seem like you belong yet?” 

It had been meant as a joke, a reference to the time he told her he wanted to join the Night’s Watch to fit in somewhere. He didn’t seem to see it the same way. He shot her a quick look, but it was enough for her to glean the frustration. Not to mention, of course, the way he stiffened. She saw his jaw tense. Jon wasn’t often very expressive, or very talkative – she had learned this, in the late-night talks with him while traveling to the wall – but this was a different type of silence. 

“What is it?” He didn’t respond, instead turning his head away. She took in a deep breath, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She looked down at her feet. “We travelled all this way together and you're going to pretend like I can't tell something's wrong with you?” 

Jon turned back to her, surprised. She met eyes with him, expecting a response. He turned away again before he answered her. 

“Nobody told me what it’s like here – what it’s really like. The other recruits hate me, because I was trained by the Master-at-Arms in Winterfell. They think I look down on them because my father’s highborn.” 

“That’s stupid,” she said. “Being highborn doesn’t make you different.” 

“They’re smallfolk,” he explained. “They grew up poor, hungry. I thought they would look at me and see a bastard. Instead they look at me and see Ned Stark’s son.” 

She nodded, frowning. “My uncle didn't want me to talk to you. He said that the differences of our stations meant that our friendship would separate you from the rest of the men here." 

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

"He also said that if I truly cared for you, I would understand." 

"And do you?" 

"At first I thought he was being dramatic, but I understand now." 

"No - I meant..." He looked away from her now, and didn't continue. Joanna smiled sadly. 

"Of course I do, Jon," she said. 

"I'm sorry," he said again. She chuckled. 

"Sorry that I'm foolish? Me too." 

Joanna turned to look out over the wide expanse of wilderness that was spread out before them. The wild lands north of the Wall. She had seen what she came to see. Disheartened, she stood. 

“Before long, the men will look at you and see a brother in arms,” she said softly. “You’re still a trainee yet.” 

“Perhaps,” Jon nodded. 

“I hope I’ll see you again before I leave,” she said. He gave her a soft smile. 

“It’s a small castle,” he shrugged. The corners of her lips tugged up into a smile. 

Turning, she headed back towards the walkway. She looked over her shoulder, giving Jon one more smile, before beckoning Ser Arys to follow her back to the elevator. With a deep sigh, Jon took her vacated seat, looking out over the edge of the Wall with the cold wind whipping his face. 

* * *

The only sound at the top of the Wall was the whisper of wind, the crackle of the fire, and the faint tinkling of piss as it hit the side of the ice wall below them. Joanna and Jon watched with bemusement as Tyrion fulfilled his promise - to come to the Wall and pee off the edge of the world. Bundled in her cloaks and leaning against the wall, Joanna kept a fair distance between herself and Jon, as she'd been told to do the day before. When the sun came up the next morning, she and Tyrion would set off towards King's Landing. Whether they would ever return to the Wall was a mystery, though Joanna couldn’t imagine why they would. 

Tyrion refastened his trousers and turned back to them. He walked down from the ledge slowly, satisfied. 

"I'm sorry to see you leave, Lannister," said Jon. 

"It's either me or this cold," Tyrion replied, "and it doesn't seem to be going anywhere." 

"Will you stop at Winterfell on your way South?" 

"I expect I will. Gods know there aren't many feather beds between here and King's Landing." 

"If you see my brother Bran," Jon said, "tell him I miss him. Tell him I'd visit, if I could." 

Tyrion nodded. "Of course." 

"He'll never walk again," Jon lamented. 

"If you're going to be a cripple, it's better to be a rich cripple," said Tyrion. He stepped forward and offered Jon his hand to shake. "Take care, Snow." 

"Farewell, my lord." 

Tyrion stepped between Jon and Joanna, passing them and heading back towards the elevator. Jon turned to watch him leave, and in doing so, turned to face her. 

She looked down at her feet briefly, trying to sort out everything she wanted to say to him. The affection that she had grown for Jon in the last few weeks was quite unlike anything Joanna had experienced before, and she dispaired that it was ending so soon. Jon stepped towards her. 

"I hope I'll see you again someday," he said softly. She gave him a small smile. 

"I hope so too," she responded. "Though I'm sorry to say, I don't think I'll be coming back to the Wall any time soon." 

A brief silence, as Joanna shifted on her feet. She opened her mouth to speak. 

"I suppose I ought -" 

"You're a good friend, Joanna," Jon said. "I'll miss you." 

"Just a friend?" she asked quietly. He smiled and flushed, looking down at his feet. She swallowed, chest feeling tight. Before she could think better of it, she leaned up on the tips of her toes and pressed a short kiss to Jon's mouth. When she pulled back, face flushed and burning, she took a moment to appreciate the stricken look of surprise on his face. 

"Goodbye, Jon," she said, blush hot on her cheeks and neck, then turned quickly on her heel and walked away from Jon Snow without looking back. 

Perhaps she should have felt ashamed, or guilty, but she didn't. Jon was about to take the Black, and she knew that there was no future for them. Whether or not he truly cared for her the way she did for him, it hardly mattered now. He had to let all of that go - as did she. It may have been a foolish notion, but she felt satisfied knowing that, even when they were a thousand leagues apart, a little bit of her would remain with him. 

The moment that the lift was ready to carry her and Tyrion down the side of the Wall, she hurried inside. She didn’t think that Jon would come chasing after her, but she didn’t want to be caught hanging around if he decided to go down with them. Luckily, it was only her and Tyrion who shared the ride down, and her Uncle didn’t seem to be any the wiser about what had transpired moments before. 

She knew she shouldn't, but she wondered what Jon was doing at that moment. Was he was exhilarated as she was, replaying the stolen kiss in his head? Could he, too, still feel the tingling of lingering warmth on his lips? She brought a hand up to touch her mouth for a split second, before remembering herself and keeping both of her hands at her sides. Even though they were about to leave the Wall, she was sure that her uncle wouldn't have liked hearing that instead of keeping her distance from Jon Snow like he had told her too, she had kissed him just for the satisfaction of it. It would be hers and Jon's secret. And the memory of it, of warm lips and cold noses touching, and the startled look on his face when she'd pulled away - that was all Joanna's, hers to treasure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't sure if I wanted to justify rude comments with a note but I think it's worth reminding everyone that if you can't bother to be polite in the comments then I'm not going to bother to reply to them. I'm just gonna delete them bc if you can't take the time to make your comment constructive in some way then it doesn't deserve to be attached to my work. If you find my work unoriginal or boring then click off my fic - it takes substantially less time and effort than writing a rude comment. If you think my plot sucks and you have a better plot then go write it yourself instead of telling me about it. It's fine for you to speculate how the story will progress but don't criticize my story over things that you assume will happen but haven't been written.
> 
> This is _my_ fic and I'm writing it for fun and I'm gonna do what I want. It's rly not that deep. Thanks y'all <3
> 
> (If u have, like, genuine constructive criticism then that's cool and I'd love to hear it! But it takes 0 effort to not write a rude comment.)


	11. Return

The return trip to Winterfell was turning out to be a much quicker affair than the trip to Castle Black. With less people in their party, and no plans to meet with anyone along the way, they hoped to reach Winterfell in nearly half the time that it took them to get to the Wall. Yoren, the Night’s Watch recruiter who was returning to King’s Landing with them, was interesting company. Most of their days riding were filled with the sound of their banter. Joanna enjoyed listening to most of it, though every so often it wandered into territory that was even too vulgar for her tastes. 

It was in the evenings, however, when the party was stopped to camp for the night, that Joanna truly felt how lonely this trip was. It took about a week for her to remember that she had no reason to wait up by the camp fire for everyone else to go to bed. After that, she tended to be the first person to be in bed each night, so overcome by boredom that she had very little else to do in the evenings but sleep. 

Occasionally, however, she stayed at the camp fire after dinner, if there was conversation that she wanted to listen to. She noticed, one evening, her uncle using the light from the fire to sketch something on a long piece of parchment. She leaned over, trying to discern what it was that he was drawing. 

“I never knew you were an artist, Uncle,” she said. Tyrion chuckled. 

“I’m not,” he replied. “But I do my best.” 

“What is it that you’re drawing?” 

“It’s a saddle design,” he explained. “If Bran Stark truly no longer has use of his legs, then this shall allow him to ride.” 

“Did you invent that?” she asked, surprised. 

“It’s based on the design of my own saddle,” he said. “Which, I’m afraid, I cannot take credit for.” 

Joanna was quiet for a moment, observing him sketch. She thought to herself that she could try drawing when she returned to King’s Landing, and perhaps find a hobby that she actually enjoyed. It seemed odd to her that her uncle would be so thoughtful. He was not a heartless man by any means, but Joanna never saw him as the kind of man to go out of his way to be kind to someone. She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. 

“It’s very sweet of you to do this,” she said. 

“Should I be offended by that tone of voice?” he asked. “Surely you don’t think I’m as cold and unfeeling as your mother.” 

“I just didn’t expect it of you, that’s all.” 

Apparently finishing with the sketch, Tyrion rolled the parchment up. 

“You should get some rest. We have another long day tomorrow.” 

His changing of the subject did little to quell her suspicions, but she knew better than to believe that she could worm the truth out of her uncle if he didn’t want to tell her. Sighing in defeat, she stood. 

“I suppose you’re right,” she said. “Goodnight, Uncle.” 

“Sleep well,” he bade. Shortly before entering her tent, she looked over her shoulder to see him looking pensively at the roll of parchment. But the moment was brief, and had passed before she could think on it. 

* * *

Their welcome in Winterfell was considerably less grand than it was before. Tyrion noted this as they stood before Robb Stark and Winterfell’s resident Maester. 

“I must say,” he said, “We received a slightly warmer welcome on our last visit.” 

An iron sword was laid out on the table before Robb, and his growing dire wolf was resting at his foot. The signs were clear – they were not extending their hospitality this time around. Joanna wasn’t sure what had changed between then and now, but she was beginning to wonder if her mother and uncle had been right about the Starks all along. She felt uncomfortable beneath Robb’s cold, scrutinizing gaze. 

“Any man of the Night’s Watch is welcome at Winterfell,” he answered. 

“Any man of the Night’s Watch, but not us, eh boy?” 

Robb resented that, but he was careful not to let it show on his face. He kept on a cool mask of impassiveness. 

“I’m not your boy, Lannister,” he said. “I’m Lord of Winterfell while my father is away.” 

“And you might learn a Lord’s courtesy,” said Tyrion. “If not for me, then for your princess.” 

“Princess Joanna has our warmest welcome,” Robb replied, though Joanna couldn’t say she felt particularly welcomed. 

“I see,” Tyrion said. “So your quarrel is with me, then.” 

Before Robb could reply, and before the situation could get any tenser, the door opened. The occupants of the room turned their attention to those who entered: Bran Stark, carried by the half-giant halfwit that Joanna had occasionally seen roaming Winterfell during her last visit. 

“So it’s true,” Tyrion remarked. “Hello, Bran. Do you remember anything about what happened?” 

“He has no memory of that day,” the Master answered from up on the high table. 

“Curious…” 

“Why are you here?” asked Robb. He sounded annoyed, and Joanna couldn’t help but feel somewhat offended at his tone. 

“We had come seeking your hospitality,” she snapped. “If there is none to be found here, then perhaps we should move on.” 

“Would your companion be so kind as to kneel?” Tyrion interrupted. “My neck is beginning to hurt.” 

Bran, face completely devoid of any emotion, said in an equally bland tone: “Kneel, Hodor.” 

The giant man kneeled, and brought Bran and Tyrion face-to-face. 

“Do you like to ride, Bran?” Tyrion asked. 

“Yes,” said Bran. Then, with ice in his tone, he continued, “Well I mean, I did like to.” 

“The boy has lost the use of his legs,” said the Maester. It was all too clear that they all believed that Tyrion was mocking him. 

“What of it?” said Tyrion. “With the right horse and saddle, even a cripple can ride.” 

“I’m not a cripple!” Bran protested. 

“Then I’m not a dwarf! My father will rejoice to hear it!” He pulled the roll of parchment from his belt and passed it to Bran. “I have a gift for you. Give that to your saddler, he’ll provide the rest. You must shape the horse to the rider. Start with a yearling, and teach it to respond to the reins and to the boy’s voice.” 

Bran examined the diagram closely. “Will I really be able to ride?” 

“You will. On horseback, you’ll be as tall as any of them.” 

“Is this some kind of trick?” Robb asked. “Why do you want to help him?” 

“I have a tender spot in my heart for cripples, bastards, and broken things,” he answered. Bran rolled the parchment up, a wide smile breaking through the emotionless mask he had worn. 

“You’ve done my brother a kindness. The hospitality of Winterfell is yours.” 

“Spare me your false courtesies, Lord Stark. There’s a brothel outside your walls. There I’ll find a bed, and both of us shall sleep easier. A room for my niece is all I ask.” “Of course,” said Robb with a nod. Tyrion turned and began to leave. Joanna looked between Tyrion and Robb, incredulous, before hurrying after her uncle. She caught up to him just outside the doors to the great hall. 

“What are you doing?” she hissed. “Go back in there and accept his offer!” 

“Everyone will be much better off if I stay in the brothel – including me.” 

“It doesn’t matter,” she said, crossing her arms. “It’s the principle of the thing.” 

He chuckled at her. “Northern Lords are hard-headed, and they hate Lannisters. I was never expecting to stay in the castle tonight.” 

She shifted on her feet, unhappy with the result, but she knew that her uncle was right. Her mother’s family had made it clear that they held no love for the Starks, and she supposed that she should have expected that in return from the Starks. 

“Fine,” she said. “Then I shall see you again in the morning.” 

“We’ll be leaving at dawn. Don’t be late – your mother won’t want to hear that I left you here.” 

That drew a smile from Joanna, imagining the look on her mother’s face if she found out that she had decided to stay in Winterfell. 

“Don’t tempt me,” she laughed. “Sleep well, uncle.” 

“With a night in the brothel, I’m sure I will.” 

* * *

Joanna only knew where Bran’s room was from calling upon him and his family before she had left with her uncle for the Wall. She was glad to be able to return with happier tidings. Dinner had been a tense affair; out of propriety - and propriety only, it seemed - she had been invited down to the dining hall to eat. There she had been met with little more than short comments and empty conversation. Afterwards, when she returned to her room, she lay face down in her bed for an hour, turning over the dinner in her head and wondering if it could possibly have gone worse. She had never been treated so coldly in her life, especially not by someone who had previously been so kind and open. 

With hopes of Winterfell with at least one positive interaction behind her, Joanna decided to head to Bran’s room. After all, there was something that Jon had asked of Tyrion that he never got to do. She approached Bran’s room, encouraged at seeing that the door was cracked. As she approached, however, she became aware of two quiet voices from within the room. Slowing her steps, she paused just before reaching the door. 

The deeper voice of the two she recognized as Robb’s. She hesitated for a moment, deciding whether or not she wanted to interrupt a visit between the two brothers. In doing so, she became privy to their conversation. 

“When is she supposed to be back?” 

“Soon, Bran.” 

“Will Father be coming back with her?” 

“You know that he can’t.” 

There was a brief pause. Joanna furrowed her brow, leaning in closer to the door to hear better. 

Robb continued, “I know everything is different. It will start feeling normal soon.” 

There didn’t seem to be a response; if there was one, Joanna didn’t hear it. It was silent again for a brief moment, before footsteps began to sound. Not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, she quickly reached out her hand to knock on the door. The footsteps paused briefly, then resumed. Robb pulled open the door. He seemed surprised to see her there. 

“Can I help you, Princess?” 

“I came to see your brother,” she said, hoping that her smile was smooth and pleasant. “Is he awake?” 

“Of course.” He stepped to the side, allowing her to enter. Bran was reclined in his bed, similar to how she had seen him before. He didn’t seem particularly excited to see her, though nor did he seem unhappy that she was there. Lately, he didn’t seem to feel much of anything. His joy at being presented the design for the saddle was the only emotion that Joanna had seen out of him since he’d woken up. 

“How do you feel, Bran?” she asked, taking the seat at his bedside. 

“I’m fine.” 

“I was with your brother at the Wall.” 

Bran seemed to perk up at that. “Jon?” 

“He says he misses you,” she said. She smiled and leaned in to place a hand over one of his. “He said that he would visit you, if you could.” 

“Do you think he’ll visit soon?” said Bran, sounding eager. Her smile turned into a grimace. 

“He’s still training, you understand.” He seemed to sink, smile fading. Joanna couldn’t stand the sight. “It’s only for a little while. Once he’s a member of the Night’s Watch, I’m sure he’ll visit you as soon as he can.” 

Bran gave her a small smile, the one little boys do when they want to placate their older siblings but their heart isn’t in it. 

“Thank you,” he said softly. Joanna squeezed his hand and stood. She crossed the room to the door, feeling quite defeated. 

Robb, who had stood by the door for the duration of their conversation, motioned towards the hall. 

“Let me walk you to your room,” he said. 

She smiled, nodding her head in appreciation. They left the room together, closing the heavy wooden door behind them, and set off down the hallway side by side. 

“That was kind, what you did for my brother,” said Robb. “He’s been in low spirits lately.” 

“I could tell,” she said. "It was a favor for both Bran and Jon, and I was happy to do it." 

"How is my brother?" he asked, sounding earnest. "How is he taking to the Wall?" 

Joanna considered this question for a moment, wondering whether or not to tell Robb about his brother's stuggle fitting in. 

"He's adjusting," is what she'd decided to say, giving Robb a small shrug. "It's different from Winterfell, but I think he'll do fine." 

"I hope he know he can come home if he mislikes it," Robb said, almost to himself. 

"I'm sure he does," she replied. "If it's truly what he wants, he'll make peace with the hardships. And it really did seem like it was what he wanted." 

"He's been talking about it since we were boys," he said. "I only wish I could've been there to see him off." 

"Your uncle is at the wall with him," she said. "He's in a friendly place." 

They had reached her door by now, and they paused in front of it, hesitating. As pleased as she was to have managed a normal conversation with Robb Stark, their welcome earlier that day was still chafing at her. She frowned. 

"Lord Robb," she said. "I hope that the last time we were here, my family had not done anything to offend yours." 

Robb grimaced. "Princess Joanna, please accept my deepest –" 

"I don't want an apology," she interrupted, brushing him off. "I only wish to understand what happened so I may apologize to you, if that's what's necessary." 

“I hope you understand,” Robb said quickly, an attempt to get a word in edgewise before she could interrupt him again. “This is a…trying time for my family. It’s difficult not to be guarded with visitors, royal or not. You and your uncle have done nothing wrong.” 

She pursed her lips, considering that answer. She supposed, the Starks didn’t exactly have a reputation for being incredibly trustful, especially of outsiders, which Joanna supposed she and Tyrion were. With a firm nod, she made her decision known. 

“Of course. I suppose you're the liege lord of the North now, aren't you? That's a lot of responsibility for you so soon.” She smiled easily, hoping that he would drop his guard around her. “My uncle and I come as friends. If there is any way we can help your family, it is our pleasure to do so.” 

“That’s kind of you, Princess,” Robb said, seeming to relax. “But our house shall endure.” 

She chuckled with a hint of a smile. “Funny. I always thought the stoicism of the Northmen was an exaggeration.” 

Robb made a face, half amused and half confused. 

“Should _I_ be offended?” 

“No, no,” she laughed. “It's admirable." 

“Still,” said Robb. “I’m sorry if I was rude to you at dinner.” 

Joanna gave him a smile. “There is nothing to be sorry for. I was selfish for forgetting how much has changed here for you and your family. I was just confused; I thought that we’d become friends when I was last here.” 

“You still have my friendship,” he assured. 

“And you have mine,” she replied with a smile. “I should hope that our next encounter is warmer, though I regret that I’m not sure when that will be.” 

“Soon, I should hope,” Robb replied. “Though, in any case, not soon enough.” 

She found herself surprised at the response. Was he…flirting with her? She wasn’t sure if he truly was, or if she was flattering herself. Perhaps all the thoughts of fleeting romance that had consumed her quiet moments were influencing her thoughts. He continued before she could think on it too long. 

“I hope you’ll write, once you’re in King’s Landing.” 

Joanna beamed. “Only if you promise to reply.” 

“Of course,” he laughed. Then he straightened up, fixing her with a kind smile. “Goodnight, Princess.” 

With warmth in her chest, she smiled in return. “Goodnight, Lord Robb.”


	12. Crossroads

Somewhere around the Neck, Joanna remembered that it was a long way from Winterfell to King’s Landing, and she began to miss the wheelhouse. More specifically, perhaps, she began to miss the cushioned seats. Perhaps one day her arse would feel something other than numb or sore, though she couldn’t imagine it would be soon. They were still a week at least from King’s Landing. Despite this, she tried her best to grin through the pain and enjoy her trip. Gods knew, it was likely to be her last one. 

While part of her was excited to get back to King’s Landing, to see her siblings, to see her friends, there was a small part of her that was sad to leave the North. The North was so far removed from King’s Landing, so distant and so different, that it was almost like stepping into another world for a short time. As much as Joanna had loved gossip and court chatter, it was nice for a short while to live in a world where there was no court; there were no courtiers to impress, no worry of putting a toe out of line in front of her mother. It was a simpler, and much happier life, for however short a time. 

But of course, she couldn’t truly be sad to return to King’s Landing. Not when it meant seeing Desmera again, or Myrcella and Tommen. She couldn’t wait to see the looks on her younger siblings’ faces when she told them about the Wall. If she were lucky, she could avoid Joffrey’s hounding about it. Cersei could hardly be avoided, but Joanna hoped that by the time of her return, her mother would have had enough time that most of her anger would have worn off. It was perhaps too much to hope for, but Joanna hoped for it nonetheless. 

Yoren and Tyrion burst out laughing at something; the sound of their laughter drew Joanna out of her thoughts. Ser Arys curled his lip in disgust, scoffing. He shook his head. 

“Are you sure you’re not offended by their vulgarity, Princess?” he asked. 

“I didn’t hear them,” she responded, shrugging. “I wasn’t listening.” 

“They shouldn’t use such language around you.” 

“I don’t mind it, Arys,” she said. “I promise. I don’t pay them any attention half the time, anyways.” 

“Lord Tyrion is a man of ill character,” he said, still frowning over at the two men. “I mislike the way he speaks around you and your sister.” 

“Myrcella likes it,” she replied. The thought made her smile. “It makes her feel grown-up to hear adults use foul language.” 

Ser Arys sighed. “With respect, my princess, I don’t know what your father was thinking allowing you to go to the Wall with your uncle. It’s no place for a respectable young lady like yourself.” 

At that, Joanna’s smile turned sour. 

“Yes, well, you needn’t worry of it much longer. Once we return to King’s Landing, I doubt my mother will let me see the light of day for months.” 

“Your mother means well, my lady,” he said. Joanna only barely refrained from snorting at that. She liked Ser Arys. He was often the member of the Kingsguard tasked with protecting her and her siblings, perhaps because of his younger age or his kind disposition. So Joanna thought it ironic that he seemed to believe that her mother ever did anything to her because she meant well. Still, she bit her tongue. 

“I suppose you may be right,” she said, voice somewhat stiff. 

Joanna was much more transparent than she thought she was. Ser Arys was sure that she thought she was hiding her disdain for her mother very well. All teenaged girls seemed to be the same in that regard; every girl reached a certain age in their youth, it seemed, when they suddenly grow to be enemies with their mother. He was sure that Myrcella would be the same when she came to be Joanna’s age. And, after all, Joanna did have a tendency to be dramatic. 

Though sometimes, Arys could see that Joanna had a point. It was clear that Cersei loved her children in the way that she doted on them and protected them. Arys knew that it killed her to have Joanna be so far away. But he wasn’t blind. Cersei was always so accommodating of her other children, so willing to overlook their flaws and make excuses for unseemly behavior. To Joanna, however, Cersei always seemed to have a much more critical eye. 

For much of her life, Arys remembered, Joanna had fervently sought her mother’s approval in everything she did, and relished in the reward of her mother’s affection. It was only in the recent years that it seemed that Joanna began to despise the constant chase for her mother’s attentions, began to tire of trying her hardest only to suffer her mother’s ire over something small. She acted out more, was looser with her tongue – though, Arys noted, she still dedicated much of her time to making sure that Cersei would approve of her actions and appearance. Perhaps old habits were hard to break. 

He hoped that the trip to the Wall would be the remedy that Joanna needed. She was restless, like her father. Too much time spent cooped up in the keep made her temperamental. Perhaps upon their return to King’s Landing, he would see the affable young girl she was in her youth return – he had caught a glimpse of her in their visit to Winterfell, and that had given him hope. If there was one thing he hated, it was being posted outside the King’s doors and having to overhear the shouting match between him and the Queen whenever she and Joanna incited each other’s ire. 

She did, indeed, look happier now. Even tired and uncomfortable as she was, she tended to have the ghost of a smile lingering upon her face. He only hoped it would last until they returned to King’s Landing. 

* * *

It was a relief to finally reach the Inn at the Crossroads. Joanna wanted nothing more in the world than a hay-filled bed, never mind the feather bed that was awaiting her at home. Her back ached with stiffness just thinking about it. So many nights sleeping on a bedroll had been spent dreaming of the day she could have a warm meal, a warm bed, and a roof over her head once more. The Inn at the Crossroads could barely hold a candle to the Red Keep, but Joanna didn’t mind. 

As such, it was disheartening to be hardly two steps inside the inn before being told that there were no free rooms. 

“My men can sleep in the stables,” Tyrion replied. “My niece and I don’t require large rooms.” 

“Princess Joanna, please, I would be honored if you took my room,” the innkeeper said. “But my customers have paid for their beds. That is the only room I can give.” 

Joanna looked over at Tyrion for guidance, unsure about pushing a woman out of her own room, but he was already drawing a gold dragon from the coin purse at his side. He held it between his fingers for the patrons to see. 

“Is there nothing I can do to remedy this?” he asked, and tapped the coin twice on a table for emphasis. A man sitting nearby spoke up. 

“You can have my room,” he said. 

“Now there’s a clever man!” said Tyrion, tossing the coin to him. He turned to the innkeeper, who appeared a bit baffled at the transaction that had taken place. “You can manage food, I trust? Yoren, dine with us.” 

Desperate for food, Joanna was eager to sit and be fed a meal. Before she could even take a step, however, another interruption befell them. 

“Princess Joanna,” said a loud voice. A bard, lute in hand, stood. “My Lord of Lannister. Might I entertain you while you eat? I can sing your father’s victory at King’s Landing.” 

“Nothing would more likely ruin my supper.” He turned his head, intending to look away from the bard, and caught something very interesting in his sights. His eyes widened in surprise. “Lady Stark!” 

Joanna stepped forward, confused and surprised. She had been told that Lady Stark was in Winterfell, unwell. And yet, here she was, leagues away. Tyrion continued before she could say anything. 

“What an unexpected pleasure! I was sorry to have missed you at Winterfell.” 

The other patrons murmured in surprise – clearly, they were all unaware that Lady Stark was among them. Curious, Joanna found, that she would be so quiet about her presence, and that her son would be so secretive about her whereabouts. Lady Stark did not look half as pleased to see Tyrion as he seemed to be to see her. She had a stony look on her face as she rose from her seat and lowered the scarf from over her head. She looked around the inn at the other patrons. Every eye was on her. The soft murmurs quieted. 

“I was still Catelyn Tully the last time I stayed here,” she said. Then, she pointed to a man sat across the room and stepped forward. The master-at-arms of Winterfell, who was sat across from her, rose as well. “You, ser. Is that the black bat of Harrenhal I see embroidered on your coat?” 

The man in question stood and nodded. “It is, my lady.” 

“And is Lady Whent a true and honest friend to my father, Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun?” 

“She is.” 

Lady Stark looked around the room once more. Joanna couldn’t help but notice that Rodrik Cassel had his hand clasped around the hilt of his sword. She looked behind her, making sure that Ser Arys was close at her back. Whatever Lady Stark was getting at, she was sure it wasn’t a kindly gesture. Catelyn pointed out another man in the crowd. 

“The red stallion was always a welcome sight at Riverrun. My father counts Jonos Bracken amongst his oldest and most loyal bannermen.” 

“My lord is honored by his trust,” the knight said. 

Tyrion shook his head. “I envy your father all his fine friends, Lady Stark,” he said, “but, I don’t quite see the purpose of this.” 

In lieu of an answer, Catelyn turned to address a knight sitting behind her. 

“I know your sigil as well – the twin towers of Frey,” she said. “How fares your lord, ser?” 

“Lord Walder is well, my lady,” the knight answered. “He has asked your father for the honor of his presence on his ninetieth nameday; he plans to take another wife.” 

Tyrion scoffed at that, though at her scornful glance, Lady Stark didn’t seem to take kindly to his levity. She turned around to face him, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“This man came into my house as a guest, and there conspired to murder my son, a boy of ten. In the name of King Robert and the good lords you serve, I call upon you to seize him and help me to return him to Winterfell, to await the King’s justice.” 

She hardly had to finish speaking before each of the knights she had called upon drew their swords as one, closing in on Tyrion so he had no room to move. Ser Arys took a step towards Joanna, but she stepped towards Tyrion, fists balled in anger. What gall Lady Stark had! She took a deep breath to try and keep her voice level. 

“Good sers, I bid you lower your swords,” she said, hardly restrained. She glowered at Catelyn with all the anger she could muster, channeling the fury away from her voice and to her gaze instead. She tried to emulate her father when he was angry, the low, strong voice he used that made his subjects tremble in their boots. One or two of the knights lowered their swords immediately, though others hesitated. In a steady voice Joanna continued, “Lady Stark, this is folly. Our families may not always see eye-to-eye, but I promise you, my uncle bears no ill will towards your son.” 

“We are in the possession of the dagger he owned, the dagger that was meant for my son’s throat,” she hissed. 

“And you’re so sure that this dagger was his?” Lady Stark seemed to want to speak, but she withheld her words. Joanna took this chance to continue. “Come with us to King’s Landing if you must. There, my uncle can receive a trial, and the King’s justice can be dispensed immediately, if necessary.” 

Catelyn didn’t seem wholly placated, but she didn’t protest. She turned to Rodrik, sharing a long look with him, before turning back to Joanna to meet her gaze. 

“I will not have him travel as a free man,” she said. “He will return to King’s Landing in irons.” 

“So be it,” Joanna replied. Tyrion turned to give her a look, but she ignored it. “Ser Arys, tonight you will keep watch over my uncle’s room and ensure that he does not leave. We will all ride for King’s Landing in the morning.” 

“Yes, my lady,” Arys responded. 

She accompanied Arys as he escorted Tyrion to the room that would act as his prison cell for the night. To say that Tyrion was upset was an understatement. 

“In irons?” he demanded, once they were far enough away from keen ears. 

“What was I supposed to do?” she asked. “She told the entire inn that you conspired to murder a little boy! Truly, uncle, I’m asking you – what should I have done?” 

“What does it matter now?” he asked. “I’m already a prisoner.” 

“When we’re home in King’s Landing, mother or father will think of something to free you,” she said. “I’m sure of it.” 

“Ride ahead to King’s Landing,” he told her. She furrowed her brow, incredulous. 

“What?” 

“You and Ser Arys will travel much quicker than the entire group will. Warn your mother of what’s happened.” 

“And leave you at the mercy of Lady Stark?” 

Tyrion’s expression darkened, if only slightly. “Lady Stark will keep me alive if she knows what’s good for her.” 

Joanna frowned, but she didn’t have a reply. She was keen for her uncle’s advice, and if this was it, then so be it. 

“I don’t like it,” she said. Tyrion snorted. 

“Nor do I!” he replied. “But you must be quick. Go,” he urged, “I’ll be alright.” 

Hesitant, Joanna leaned down to press a kiss to her uncle’s cheek. She squeezed his hands tightly, loathe to release him. Nevertheless, she and Ser Arys went downstairs to meet Catelyn and her man-at-arms. Joanna wore the stoniest look she could muster. 

“My man and I will travel ahead of you to the capitol,” she told them. “My uncle is in your custody. We will be expecting you in King’s Landing shortly, Lady Stark.” 

Lady Stark was not cowed, but Joanna didn’t back down. 

“Your uncle will receive the King’s justice,” she said. 

“Then you shall see him to it unharmed.” 

She and Arys swept out of the inn, Yoren in tow, and left that evening to ride for King’s Landing with all haste.


	13. Warning

The trip that should have taken Joanna, Arys, and Yoren a week took them hardly a matter of days. They hardly stopped for food and rest; when they did stop, Joanna was restless. She had no appetite and her mind was racing too fast for her to get any sleep. She thought of everything that could happen, all the ways that things could go wrong. Tyrion could die before Catelyn Stark brought him to King's Landing. Catelyn could go back on her word and take him to Winterfell anyways. Her mother and father could decide that Tyrion wasn't worth saving. They could decide to execute Catelyn for arresting Tyrion. 

_Oh, gods,_ she thought. She was angry at Lady Stark for arresting her uncle, but she didn't want to see her killed, either. She was a mother, worried for the life of her son. Grieving parents did rash things sometimes, didn't they? As long as her uncle wasn't harmed, she saw no reason why Lady Stark should be punished harshly for her actions. Cersei loved her children more than her own life; Joanna hoped that she would understand. 

Cersei never understood. Joanna knew this. She immediately felt foolish for hoping for any kind of understanding from her mother. Cersei wanted the things in her life to be perfect, and took the greatest offense to any little detail that was wrong. As much as she despised her brother, she would still view his arrest as a personal offense. Joanna was loathe to see what Cersei would say, or do. She didn't always have much influence over the king, but since it was her brother, perhaps he would defer to her wishes. 

It was decided, then. She had to keep her mother from finding out for as long as possible. That was a difficult task for a queen so keen in politics. But Joanna would do what she could. 

The trio raced through the streets of King’s Landing, straight to the Red Keep at the opposite end of the city. Joanna knew that she had to be quick. Her family would want to see her, no doubt, though she hoped that returning a week earlier than planned would delay them, if only for a bit. Once she was relieved of her horse, she turned to race into the Red Keep. Ser Arys grabbed her arm. 

“Where are you off to, my lady?” he asked, confused. She pulled her arm from his grasp. 

“I have to speak with Lord Stark,” she said, rushing off before he could stop her again. She hurried to the quarters that were kept for the Hand of the King, relieved that she remembered the way. She approached the door, out of breath from climbing the steps of the tower. The Stark’s captain of the guard was stood at the door of the study, and Joanna gave a quick sigh of relief – she had found Lord Stark. 

“Princess Joanna?” He seemed surprised to see her. “I didn’t know you were back.” 

“I need to see Lord Stark urgently,” she said, nearly panting. Jory Cassel frowned. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“I don’t have the time to explain,” she said impatiently, shifting from foot to foot as though she were about to run right past him and burst through the door. “I need to speak with him.” 

Cassel was still frowning, but he turned and knocked three short times on the door before stepping inside. 

“Pardon, my lord,” he said. “Princess Joanna is here to see you, she says it’s urgent.” 

Apparently given approval by Lord Stark, he turned and waved her inside. She brushed past him quickly. Inside the solar, Lord Stark was standing before his desk, his daughter Arya beside him. Arya was filthy, dressed in boys clothing with her hair tousled. Joanna had no time to inquire or even to say hello. 

“Lord Stark!” she cried before he could greet her. Noting her urgency, he rose a hand as though to calm her. “We returned as fast as we could!” 

“What’s happened?” he asked. 

Joanna opened her mouth to speak, then her eyes flickered to Arya, and her lips clamped shut. She hesitated. Ned Stark seemed to notice that her hesitance relied on Arya’s presence, and leaned down to kiss her head. 

“Go on,” he said. “We’ll talk later. Jory, take her safely to her room.” 

The two left, and he moved past her to close the door behind them. 

“What is it?” 

“It’s your wife,” she explained. “She’s arrested my uncle at the Crossroads Inn. My mother and father don’t know yet, I wanted to warn you before they knew. I know that your wife is bereaved for your son – she’s being rash. Perhaps you can make her see reason when she returns.” 

He blinked, processing the stream of information she’d blurted to him. “She’s coming here?” 

“I convinced her to bring him here instead of Winterfell,” she said. “Perhaps if you could speak to her when she arrives, she’ll see that this is all just a misunderstanding.” 

Eddard was silent for a moment. She allowed him his quiet so what he had heard could sink in. 

“Thank you,” he said finally. She shifted on her feet. 

“I have to tell my father now,” she said. “I’ll make sure he understands that you already know.” 

“No,” he said, somewhat suddenly. She frowned. 

“The King has to know, Lord Stark,” he said. “The whole city will know by tomorrow. He’ll be angry if he finds out that way.” 

“He should hear it from me,” he said. “Not his daughter.” 

She saw no reason to disagree, and it saved her a task that she wasn’t looking forward to. She nodded. “Very well.” 

She turned to leave, crossing the room to the door. Just before leaving, Lord Stark called to her. 

“Thank you,” he said. Joanna’s mouth raised in a half-smile, half-grimace. 

“Good luck,” she replied, and left on her way. 

She trailed through the halls, making her way back to her room. First thing that she needed to do was come up with a reason for not coming to see her family right away. She supposed that she could say that she was in desperate need of a bath – which was true. She was eager to peel off her travelling clothes and finally wear a fresh dress. That might placate her family – her mother especially, who always hated to see Joanna unkept as she very much was now. 

Feeling as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders, she walked with much less urgency, and absorbed the feeling of finally being back in the Red Keep. It was nice, indeed, to be home. She was eager to see Desmera again, and to tell Myrcella and Tommen about her travels. They would be fascinated, she was sure. Each of them had bemoaned not being able to accompany their sister to the Wall. She would have to think of some embellishments to her story to make it one worth hearing. 

It was nice to be in a warmer climate again as well. As much as Joanna had come to enjoy the cold air of the North, she did look forward to wearing lighter clothes and spending more of her time out of doors without having to come inside and warm up every so often. The North lacked the gardens of the south, of which the Red Keep had plenty. Joanna looked forward to spending the coming days wandering through the gardens with Desmera and her other handmaidens in tow, perhaps going down to one of the beaches at the foot of the castle to dip their toes in the water. 

Until then, Joanna was just happy to be back in her room, where her feather bed awaited her. It had been far too long. Finally reaching her door, a small smile rose on her face as she reached out to the handle, preparing to relish in the sight of the one true haven that existed to her. The door swung open, revealing to her – 

Cersei. 

Joanna froze. Her mother was waiting for her, and she was not happy. The smile she wore was tight, and Joanna could practically feel the anger in her mother’s eyes boring into her. She sat at the table, a glass of wine in her hand, Ser Arys standing across from her. That was almost worse. Cersei was in her room, and she had been waiting. 

“There you are!” she said, standing. “When Ser Arys reported your return, I thought I’d come straight to your chambers to see you. I didn’t imagine I would have to wait.” 

Joanna said nothing. The look on Cersei’s face got progressively worse as she failed to hide her fury. Sometimes she could cover up her true feelings with a smile, but today her mask was transparent. 

“Where were you?” 

Joanna’s eyes flickered to Ser Arys. How lucky was she feeling? She decided to test her luck – she was going to be in trouble either way, she was sure. 

“I went to go find Desmera,” she said, spouting the first lie that came to her. “I missed her so much, I didn’t want to wait.” 

“Is that so?” Joanna felt her stomach sink and her palms grow sweaty as her mother spoke. “Ser Arys just told me that you told him you were going to speak with Lord Stark. Why would you do that?” 

Perhaps it was because she no longer felt lucky, or perhaps it was because she didn’t have it in her to speak, but Joanna did not reply – only swallowed thickly and clenched her hands. Cersei didn’t need her to reply. 

“Catelyn Stark arrests your uncle and the first person you run to is her husband?” she asked, eyes narrowing. “Did it not occur to you that the Starks are now our enemy?” 

Joanna wanted to defend herself, to explain, but her mouth was dry. When she opened it to speak, she couldn’t find words to say. What could she say to make her mother understand? She had already made up her mind. 

“Of course it didn’t,” she continued, venomous. “You’re a child. Your father was foolish for allowing you to go off with your uncle. If you’d have stayed with me, this would never have happened.” 

“What will happen now?” Joanna asked, finally managing to find her voice. Her mother’s lips rose in a tiny smile that chilled her blood. 

“Your Uncle Jaime has already gone to speak with him,” she said. “No thanks to you.” 

“I’m sorry.” The mumble fell from her lips before she could stop it. She wasn’t sure if she was sorry for not telling her mother or sorry for being sloppy about telling Lord Stark. Her eyes were cast at the ground in front of her. She couldn’t bring herself to meet her mother’s icy gaze. Cersei didn’t say anything. She regarded Joanna with a strange look. And then finally, her face softened. She opened her arms. 

“Come here,” she said softly. Joanna shuffled forward into her mother’s embrace. Cersei wrapped her arms around her eldest daughter, running a gentle hand through her hair. Joanna hid her face in her mother’s shoulder, eyes peering out. Cersei’s mouth was just by her ear, and she spoke just softly enough for her to hear. “Never lie to me again.” 

And then she released her. Joanna stood stock still as Cersei trailed out of the room, Ser Arys at her tail. She didn’t move until she heard the door thump shut. When she was sure she was alone, she let out a long, shaking breath, releasing with it a flood of tears that had been waiting just below the surface. She should have been cleverer. She should have known that the first thing Arys was going to do was go straight to her mother. If anything happened to Lord or Lady Stark, it was her fault. 

She sank to her bed, hopeless. Of all the ways things could have gone wrong, she never considered this. 

A knock came at her door. To her relief, it was Desmera who announced herself. Called inside, she trailed in with two of Joanna’s other handmaidens in tow. Rising from the bed, Joanna hurried over to Desmera and buried her in a hug. Desmera responded just as fervently, wrapping her arms around her tightly. 

“I’ve missed you, my lady,” she said, then she pulled away and motioned to the others. “We all have.” 

Joanna smiled. Though not as close to her other handmaidens as she was to Desmera, it was still nice to see them again. She supposed she missed them always trailing one step behind her. It was nice, never being alone. She approached each one in turn; Cerenna and Myrielle Lannister, her cousins, and Rhea Royce, who had been at court for nearly a year now. Her cousins had decided to remain in King’s Landing rather than travel to the North, while Rhea had travelled with them along the Kingsroad before turning to the Vale to visit her family. To each of her handmaidens, she granted a kiss on the cheek. 

“Could you call Dorcas, have her and the others bring water for a bath.” 

Rhea, dutiful as ever, ducked in a curtsy and left to find Joanna’s chief serving woman and the other servants who waited on her. Cerenna and Myrielle helped Desmera unclothe Joanna. 

“This dress is filthy!” said Myrielle, a pinched look on her face. “I can’t believe you had to travel in this!” 

“There’s no one to impress on the Kingsroad,” Joanna said. “Most of the people we passed didn’t know who I was.” 

“I’m sure the Imp gave you away,” snickered Cerenna. “Where is he anyway, I wonder? Did he get stopped over in the brothels on your way through the city?” 

“That sounds like him, doesn’t it,” said Joanna quietly. Typically she enjoyed Cerenna and Myrielle’s chatter, but now she had other things on her mind. “It’s a long story, one I’m sure you’ll hear elsewhere before too long.” 

“Would it have to do with why I saw your mother leaving here?” Desmera asked. 

“Indeed,” Joanna sighed. “Once I’m bathed, I’m going straight to bed.” 

“Well we can stay, can’t we?” Cerenna asked. “We did miss you so, we’ve all spent days talking about what stories you might bring.” 

That made Joanna smile, and cheered her mood slightly. 

“Of course you can. Though with as much riding I’ve done, I can’t promise I’ll be awake for long.” 

“We’ll take what we can get,” said Desmera. She and Joanna shared a smile. Now down to only her shift, she sat and waited for the servants to bring the water and tub for her bath. 

“Cerelle, Myrielle, go find someone to bring a pitcher of wine,” she said with a long sigh. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back on the edge of the chair, slumped down. “Or two, perhaps. Gods know I’ll need it tonight.”


	14. Friend

Joanna had been lucky so far – nothing seemed to have come of her actions yet. Despite her mother’s foreboding, it seemed that Lord Stark had thus far managed to avoid a confrontation with her uncle. She hoped that he would continue to be so lucky. Until then, she surmised that it was best to keep to her chambers. It was often in her best interest to keep a low profile for a day or two after angering her mother, although this was another matter entirely. She couldn’t foresee herself leaving her rooms for quite a while. As such, when she wanted anything, she had it brought to her. 

Her rooms let out to one of the Red Keep’s numerous gardens. It was a small maze of trees and flowers, leading down to a balcony with a view of the ocean below. Seated on the porch with the remains of her breakfast, her hands fidgeted in her lap. The sounds of the garden, peaceful as they were, weren’t enough to dispel the nervousness that had settled in her chest. In the time since her meeting with her mother, nothing seemed able to dispel them. She hoped that perhaps this meeting would ease her mind. 

She was brought out of her thoughts by the sound of the door opening. Twisting around in her seat, she was met with the sight of Desmera with Sansa by her side – just what she was waiting for. A smile blossomed on her face, and she stood. 

“Sansa!” she greeted, holding her hands out for the girl to hold. With a gentle smile and a small curtsey, Sansa accepted the offer, placing her hands in Joanna’s. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am to see you.” 

“Thank you, Princess,” Sansa replied timidly. “How was your trip in the North?” 

“I loved it,” she said honestly. “It’s clear to me how such a fine place produced such a fine girl.” 

To punctuate her sentence, Joanna reached out and gave Sansa a gentle tap under the chin. Sansa smiled and blushed prettily. She looked like a proper Southern girl now, hair done up in braids on the top of her head and dressed in airy, light-colored dresses. Pleased, Joanna gave her hands a gentle squeeze. 

“Will you join me in the garden?” she said, motioning to the path that led away from her rooms. Sansa agreed with a nod. Joanna linked their arms and started down the path. She let them walk a reasonable distance in silence, surrounded only by the sound of birdsongs and the gentle trickle of the fountains. Somewhere far down below, she could hear the rush of waves against the rocks. 

“Do you miss the North?” she asked once her porch was out of sight. 

“Not really,” said Sansa. “Only my mother, and my brothers.” 

“Of course,” Joanna smiled. “When I was travelling, I missed the feeling of home more than I missed King’s Landing itself. But perhaps with time, this will come to feel like home.” 

“I hope so,” Sansa said, though her smile seemed to falter a bit now. Joanna paused to inspect a flower. 

“You seem to be taking well to the south,” she said, turning her attention to Sansa. “I hope everything has been to your liking.” 

“It has,” Sansa agreed. “I love it here.” 

“Good! I would be sad if you misliked it. Now that I’m home, we’ll have to see each other more often.” 

“I would like that,” said Sansa. 

“My door is always open for you to visit,” she said. “For anything at all. I would like it if we were friends, Sansa.” 

Joanna could see the blush rise of Sansa’s face, and she smiled. 

“I would like that, too,” she replied. Joanna have her hand a squeeze. 

“Good.” 

Pulling gently, Joanna continued leading Sansa down the garden path hand-in-hand. 

“You’re lucky to have a garden near your room,” said Sansa. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many flowers in my life.” 

“Really?” said Joanna, surprised. She supposed, Winterfell didn’t exactly have any gardens. “Well, you’re always welcome to mine.” 

To punctuate her statement, she reached out and plucked a tiny blooming rose from a bush, pausing to tuck it behind Sansa’s ear. Examining Sansa’s hair and pretty smile, her eye was drawn lower, to the necklace resting on her collarbone. Joanna’s smile faded. It was an embossed golden lion hanging from a chain around Sansa’s neck. Without thinking, she reached out to touch it. 

“Did Joffrey give you this?” she asked. 

Sansa beamed. “He did. And then he…he kissed me.” 

Joanna drew a thumb over the pendant, frowning. It gave her an awful feeling in her stomach. Remembering herself, she set it gently back against Sansa’s skin, and gave her a small smile. 

“My mother has one just like it,” she said carefully, trying to keep her tone in check. She didn’t want to frighten Sansa. The girl reminded her of a delicate doe, and the necklace around her neck reminded Joanna of a heavy chain. But Sansa didn’t seem to wear it heavily. It took a place of honor around her neck. Joanna was careful to phrase her next question. “Has Joffrey treated you well?” 

“He has,” Sansa said with a dreamy smile. “He’s so sweet, and kind, and he calls me his lady.” 

Sweet and kind didn’t sound like Joffrey. But Joanna had to remind herself that it was better for Sansa to say that she was being treated well than to say otherwise. She linked her arm with Sansa’s and began slowly walking them down the path once more. 

“Joffrey can…have a temper, as I’m sure you’ll come to find out,” she said carefully. 

“I know,” Sansa said softly. Joanna stopped once more, turning to Sansa quickly. 

“Did he hurt you?” she asked. 

“No,” said Sansa. The pink on her cheeks wouldn’t seem to go away. “When we were travelling still, my stupid sister made him angry. He gave me this necklace to apologize. He was angry, but it wasn’t his fault.” 

If only Joanna had had a gold dragon for every time she’d heard that something wasn’t Joffrey’s fault, she could buy the Red Keep right out under her father. She looked down at their feet for a moment, trying to keep the rising outburst under control. There was so much that she wanted to say; Joffrey was a cruel monster, her mother was nearly as bad, no one ever listened or understood, and Sansa should go home and marry someone else, and her whole family should leave King’s Landing before her mother followed through with what she had threatened. But Sansa wouldn’t believe her, just like nobody else did. 

Instead, she tried to be sincere, and not sound too much like she was giving a warning. 

“Sansa…you know that my mother’s family and your father’s family haven’t liked each other in a long time,” she said. 

“Of course,” said Sansa, “but our fathers are like brothers.” 

“Indeed, they are,” Joanna smiled, squeezing her hands. “And the quarrels of the past are nothing for us to worry about. But…” She paused, trying to think of what she wanted to say. Of all the things she wished to say, she wasn’t sure what was the most important. So she settled for the one that was the most simple. “Just remember that I am truly your friend. And if you should ever need anything, I’m here.” 

Sansa grinned, dipping into a small curtsy. “Thank you, princess.” 

Returning Sansa’s smile, the two finally continued their walk down the path through the garden. 

* * *

It was just like when they were little. Joanna sat cross-legged on her floor, Tommen seated in her lap. He was too big, almost, but she cherished it nonetheless and ignored the buzzing feeling in her legs when they began to fall asleep. Myrcella was sitting beside them, listening with rapt attention as Joanna regaled her with tales of the wall. Nearly everything she said was made up, but it was worth it to see the look of wonder and delight on her sister’s face. She couldn’t stand it if she had returned home only to tell her sister that aside from being tall, the Wall was perfectly ordinary, and the men there even more so. 

Tommen only half-listened, attention mostly focused on a small figurine of a knight that Joanna had brought him, a gift from a blacksmith in one of the little towns along the Kingsroad they’d stayed in. This was what Joanna had missed most about King’s Landing. She would bear the brunt of her mother’s anger a thousand times if it meant returning home to moments like this. Once Joanna’s stories were finished, Myrcella went on and on about something in a book she’d read, restating everything in incredible detail. Joanna was delighted to listen, and to watch the candid expressions on her sister’s face. 

Halfway through Myrcella’s stories, the door to Joanna’s chambers opened. She looked over to see Desmera enter, looking stricken and out of breath. The joy in Joanna’s chest seemed to vanish in an instant. She shifted Tommen off of her lap, giving him a playful shove. He tumbled over onto the rug with a giggle. 

“I’ll only be a moment,” she said, standing. “And then I’ll come and listen again, I promise.” 

She hurried over to the other end of her chamber where Desmera was waiting, dread driving every step. 

“What’s happened?” she asked, voice hushed. 

“Your uncle attacked Lord Stark,” she said, sounding frantic. 

“Seven Hells,” Joanna said, covering her face. “Is he dead?” 

“Only injured,” Desmera replied. “I don’t know how bad. My brother told me about it, and I rushed here as fast as I could.” 

“If he’s alive, then that’s what’s important,” said Joanna, though it didn’t exactly feel like the truth. She felt like she was going to vomit. It was all her fault. 

“They’re saying it’s because Lady Stark captured Tyrion Lannister. They say she’s taken him to the Vale.” 

Joanna looked up harshly at that. 

“The Vale?” she hissed. A sudden ire rose from among the nausea in her stomach. “That woman – that, that impetuous woman! I told her to bring my uncle here, so this could be resolved!” 

Desmera’s eyes widened. 

“You knew about this?” she said. 

“I was there when she arrested my uncle,” Joanna admitted. “She thinks that he tried to murder her son. Ridiculous woman! I tried to help her! Gods be good…” 

She sat down on her bed, covering her face with her hands. At least if Catelyn had brought Tyrion to King’s Landing, she could have figured out a way for things to go better. She wondered if Lord Stark had told her to take Tyrion to the Vale, or if she had decided to take matters into her own hands even after Joanna had promised a trial. She probably thinks I’m a snake like my mother, she thought. Angry as she was, she couldn’t blame Lady Stark for that. 

Desmera frowned and moved to sit beside Joanna, placing an arm around her shoulders. 

“You shouldn’t feel guilty,” she said. “You did the best you could to help.” 

“If I hadn’t tried to help, this might not have happened,” Joanna said miserably. Desmera looked between Joanna and the prince and princess sitting on the rug on the opposite side of the room. 

“I should have waited to tell you,” she said softly. “You should enjoy your time with your brother and sister.” 

“No,” Joanna shook her head. “I’m glad I know now. Thank you, Mera.” 

“Don’t worry yourself over this,” she insisted. “It’s for the king and queen to worry about now. It’s none of your concern.” 

Joanna didn’t reply. She felt, in fact, that it was much of her concern. But she supposed that there was hardly anything she could do. And besides, even if there was, the last time she had intervened had hardly done any good. At the very least, she could ensure she didn’t do any more harm – which was how she found herself at the chamber of the Hand of the King later that evening before supper. She stood before the door wringing her hands for several moments, mind volleying back and forth over whether she should enter. Eventually she did, standing with her hands clasped in front of her as she was announced, and waiting until she and Lord Stark were alone in the room before she spoke. 

He was sat at the edge of his bed in only his bedclothes, thigh wrapped tight with bandages. She could see the barest stain of blood through the wrapping, and she tightened her grip on her hands. He was watching her, expectant, though there didn’t seem to be any malice on his face as she might have expected. 

“Lord Stark,” she started, then paused. It occurred to her that she wasn’t sure exactly what she had wanted to say. So she started with, “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re not responsible for the actions of your uncle,” he replied after a moment, shifting his leg uncomfortably. 

“When I went to warn you of your wife’s actions, I meant to help you. Instead I only caused you more trouble because I wasn’t careful enough.” 

“I should have spoken to the King immediately,” he said. “I’m a man grown; my actions weighed more on what happened to me than yours did.” 

“Still,” Joanna insisted, a heavy feeling still in her chest. “This was exactly the sort of thing I was trying to avoid. I…” She swallowed, hesitating slightly before quieting her voice somewhat. “I know my mother can often be… _unreasonable_. It’s a simple mistake on the part of your grieving wife, but I knew she wouldn’t see it that way. It was foolish of me to be so careless. I hope my mistake hasn’t cost you too much.” She moved forward towards Lord Stark, bending to kneel in front of him. “If there’s anything I can do to make you, or your daughters, more comfortable…please. It’s the least I can do.” 

“You’re very kind,” he said with a small smile, though it was clear to her that there were other things weighing on his mind. He reached to pat her shoulder gently. 

“You’re my father’s oldest friend, and your family has always been very kind to me,” she said again. “It’s the least I could do.” 

“Worry of it no further,” he assured her. “It’s between me and your father now.” 

She rose again to her feet with a small smile, guilt only partially sated. That was the best she was going to get, she supposed. Indeed, it was between him and her father now, and she had no desire to meddle in this particular instance. She curtseyed once more to Lord Stark, an honor rarely afforded to anyone beneath her station, and left the room. Starting now, she had to be more careful. On any regular day, her mother was irritable at best. But now, with the Starks in her home, she seemed like a cornered cat, ready to lash out at any provocation. Joanna sometimes wished she knew what it was about her mother – or about the Starks – that made her so uneasy around their guests. She couldn’t imagine that her mother was hiding any dark secrets – and even if she was, she was surrounded day-in and day-out by Lord Varys – the Spider – and countless others in the council and court who would be keen to know her secrets. Surely any hidden knowledge would have been found out by now. Joanna surmised that it was simply her mother’s nature. She loved only those within her own family – and even among relatives, she would make an enemy over the slightest perceived slights. 

It was tiring to be related to such a person. Joanna hated spending each day carefully constructing her appearance, her words, her actions, all to keep from riling up her mother. She wished sometimes that she didn’t care about making her angry, that she could do and say what she wanted and simply shrug off her mother's disapproval. But every time she woke up with the thought of not caring, she couldn’t. The appeasement and approval of her mother was too important to her, whether she would admit it or not. Until the day came when it no longer mattered, this was Joanna’s life. She only hoped that a day would come soon when things finally changed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the lateness of the previous chapter! But they're both up now for you to enjoy :)


	15. Lineage

What Sansa had said would not leave his mind. It hadn’t allowed him any rest. Instead, he sat in his study late into the night with the candles burning low, staring down at _The Lineage_. The same book that Jon Arryn had borrowed, the same line of questioning that Jon Arryn had followed before his untimely death. It left an awful taste in Eddard’s mouth and a heavy feeling in his stomach. He already knew the answer to his – and Jon Arryn’s – question. But what was written here in _The Lineage and Histories of the Great Houses of the Seven Kingdoms_ only confirmed it. 

Upon his first reading of the book, he hadn’t understood. He hadn’t pinpointed yet what Jon Arryn had seen, what had prompted him to go searching through Robert’s ancestry, to seek out his bastards in the city. What Sansa had said put it into bright daylight. He almost felt like a fool for having missed it all this time. Sons with beautiful blonde hair, she had said. And in the lineage, hundreds of years of Baratheon ancestry, there was not one. Until Joffrey. 

Sometimes children didn’t look like their parents – it wasn’t uncommon. Robb, his firstborn, bore more of a resemblance to his wife’s family than his own. Bran and Arya were the only two of his five children to favor the Starks. And even Jon – but the circumstances were different. Every single match between a Baratheon and another house had produced black-haired children. Every single one of Robert’s bastards were black-haired. Even his eldest daughter was black-haired. Indeed, the resemblance Joanna bore to her father was striking. There was hardly a hint of Lannister about her. Before, he had overlooked the differences between the Baratheon children. It was simply the bloodlines falling differently. But when he thought, when he really thought, there wasn’t a hint of Baratheon in any of the other children. If anything, they resembled Jaime more than they resembled Robert. 

It was not an easy conclusion to come to. He had spent hours trying to understand who, if not Robert, had fathered Cersei’s three other children. She was a cold woman; Ned had a hard time imagining her to be open and loving to anyone other than her own family. Even with her own family, she was guarded and calculated when others were around. There was simply no other option. No man had ever been closer to Cersei, had spent more time with her, nor had held her affection than her twin brother. 

Breathing out a long sigh, he sat back in his chair. This had been the reason why Jon Arryn had become obsessed with identifying Robert’s bastards. The heir to the throne was illegitimate. Any of those other illegitimate sons could lay a claim to the throne – and perhaps win it, as at least their father actually was the king. If only Joanna had been born a boy, he thought, then perhaps none of this would even matter. Cersei and her bastards could live in the Red Keep safe from the wrath of Robert, who would never have to know. 

The possibility of Joanna herself being the heir to the throne didn’t escape him. The only other female heir to the throne had been Rhaenyra Targaryen, and her rule had been challenged even before it had started. The situation was, in truth, different, as Rhaenyra’s brother had been legitimate as well. Ned wondered if it was worth the risk. Any of her bastard brothers could pose a threat to her rule. Even Cersei’s sons could, if they had their grandfather’s backing – which they almost certainly would. And half of the Seven Kingdoms would fight for them, compelled by greed for money, or fear of Tywin Lannister himself. 

Regardless, the decision as to who would be the heir to the throne was Robert’s alone. But before that decision could be made, he had to know. Ned dreaded seeing his reaction, the unbridled fury that would be directed straight at Cersei. He wanted to believe that his friend would never harm the children, which he’d raised as his own for so many years, but he couldn’t confidently tell himself that they would be safe. Against his better judgement, he knew that he would have to warn Cersei. He couldn’t stand for them to die knowing that he could have done something to prevent it. 

He resolved to wait until after Robert left for his hunt late in the morning. The king would be away from the castle and the queen and her bastards could flee. And when Robert returned, Ned would tell him the truth. 

* * *

For nearly an hour now, Joanna had sat on her terrace, looking out over the sea, deciding whether or not to stand and retrieve her stationary from her desk. Even if she did, she wasn’t sure what she would write…or who. Would Jon be able to receive a message from her? Would he be subjected to bullying and taunting by the other recruits if he did? She had told herself when leaving the Wall that she would accept that she and Jon could never be more than what they shared in the brief time before their parting, but a small part of her heart still hoped. But Robb…he was kind. He made her smile. He was incredibly handsome. And they could be more than simple friends. She knew that if she asked for her father’s blessing, he would be happy to allow them to marry. 

_Marry! Seven hells, Joanna,_ she thought to herself. But it was something she thought of more often – not for the purpose of being with a man who she loved, but more for the purpose of getting away from her mother, getting away from the Red Keep, which was more her prison than her home. She would marry just about any man in the Seven Kingdoms so long as he promised not to lock her in her room. She was growing stir crazy, but still her mother refused to allow her out. Her only solace was the companions who came to visit her. 

She perked up like a dog being offered a treat when a knock came at her door. She stood, hurrying back into her room to greet whoever had come to see her. 

“It’s Lady Sansa, my lady,” announced her guard. Joanna grinned. 

“Send her in.” 

The door swung open to reveal Sansa, who was positively steaming. Her cheeks were flushed, bearing a striking resemblance to her bright hair, and her hands were curled into fists. Joanna’s grin turned into a look of surprise – she hadn’t seen Sansa quite so bothered before. Sansa stomped in, slamming the door behind her before turning to face Joanna again. 

“I can’t believe my father!” she said. 

“What’s going on?” 

“He wants me and Arya to go home to Winterfell!” She trudged over to the bed, sitting down on it with a huff. “He’s making Septa Mordane pack our things.” 

“You’re leaving?” Joanna asked, moving around the bed to take a seat next to Sansa. “Why – what happened?” 

“I don’t know!” She punctuated her statement by hitting the bed like an upset child. “And worst of all – I won’t get to marry Joffrey!” 

It sounded like a good thing to Joanna, but she knew that Sansa felt differently, especially given that the girl was now sniffling into her sleeves. Sighing, she placed her arm around Sansa’s slender shoulders. 

“Sansa, it’ll all be alright,” she assured. She reached to wipe a tear away from the other girl’s blotchy cheek. “You’re only young yet.” 

“No it won’t be alright!” she insisted. “Father will make me go to Winterfell to marry someone else, and Joffrey will fall in love with another girl!” 

“I’m sure your father just wants you to be happy -” 

“He doesn’t!” said Sansa. “If he wanted me to be happy he’d let me stay and marry Joffrey and be the queen.” 

Joanna frowned. “Is this all about not being the queen one day?” 

“No, I love Joffrey! I love King’s Landing, I want to stay!” 

“And I would love nothing more than for you to stay,” Joanna said. She took Sansa’s hands in hers, holding them gently between them. “I’m sorry that your father is making you leave. He didn’t say why?” 

“He said it was for our safety.” Sansa rolled her eyes. “What place could be safer than the Red Keep?” 

Joanna squeezed her hands gently to comfort her. 

“I’m sure he wants what’s best for you, Sansa. It’s not as if you’ll be gone from King’s Landing forever.” 

“I hate it!” she whined, removing her hands from Joanna’s to wipe her nose on her sleeve. Joanna lifted her arm around her shoulders again, and Sansa leaned into her embrace. “How will I tell Joffrey?” 

“Joffrey will understand,” Joanna lied. “I’m sure he’ll miss you just as much as you’ll miss him. Perhaps you can write each other once you’re gone.” 

“Or what if he forgets all about me?” 

“Well,” said Joanna, reaching up to brush a strand of Sansa’s hair away from her face, “they say absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’m sure he’ll fall even more in love with you once you’re gone.” 

“Do you really think so?” she asked in a small voice. Joanna felt pity well up in her chest. 

“I know so,” she replied. “I can’t imagine how anyone else could replace you in his heart – or in anyone’s heart.” 

Sansa was quiet for a moment, sniffling, ruminating on Joanna’s words. She sighed. 

“I’m going to miss you as well,” she said. “You’re my best friend in King’s Landing.” 

That made Joanna smile. It truly did warm her heart to have Sansa’s affection. 

“I’ll miss you too,” she replied. She couldn’t say, though, that she was terribly upset to hear that Sansa was leaving. Ned Stark was a smart man – surely he recognized that Joffrey would be a terrible husband, and the Red Keep a terrible home. It was the only home Joanna had ever known, and she still hated it. She had half a mind to ask the Starks to take her with them. She rubbed Sansa’s arm reassuringly. “I’m sure everything is going to be fine. Why don’t you go and finish packing, and perhaps we can have supper tonight?” 

Sansa nodded, a small smile on her face. She stood, thanking Joanna with a hug before leaving her on her own. Joanna stood alone in the room for a moment, feeling unsettled. She strongly suspected that Lord Stark wasn’t worried about his daughters being in danger from people outside the Red Keep, but rather from the people inside of it. She hoped that along with his attack, her family hadn’t threatened his daughters in any way. That would be especially low of them, but she supposed she could imagine it happening. She wondered if Lord Stark himself would be leaving, too. 

Either way, the number of friendly faces in the Red Keep seemed to be growing smaller by the day.


	16. Rattle

Joanna held her hand clasped around her father’s. She didn’t consider herself a pious woman, but the sight of her father laying weak and injured in bed had shook her. He was not the tall, strong man that the stories said had won the Iron Throne, but she had always known him to be firm, hearty, even when he was overcome with the drink. She held his hand, head bowed, whispering quiet prayers to the Warrior to return her father’s strength to him. Joffrey, too, had been shaken by the sight of their father’s injury; he had no taunts or biting words to offer today. Indeed, Joanna hadn’t seen him this scared and unsure since they were small, small children. 

“Out, all of you!” Robert’s voice still boomed in the small room, though it was followed by a wheezing cough. Joanna hardly registered the feeling of Ser Barristan’s hand on her shoulder, or the sound of footsteps leaving the room. He shook his hand to pull it out of her grasp. “Gods be good, you’re stubborn, Joanna. Get out.” 

She rose her head to see her mother and Maester Pycelle retreating from the room, and Ned Stark standing on the opposite bedside where Joffrey had once sat. She nodded her head obediently, pressing a light kiss to the back of her father’s hand before releasing it to stand. She crossed the room, following the others out to the hallway. Joanna stood beside the others as they stood in the hallway, waiting for the door to open once more so she could resume her post at her father’s bedside. 

“You shouldn’t linger,” said Cersei. “Death isn’t a sight meant for young girls.” 

“If Grandfather were dying, you wouldn’t leave him,” Joanna replied. She crossed her arms over her chest, head bowed. “I want to stay and pray over him.” 

Cersei stepped forward to pull Joanna into an embrace. She pressed a kiss to the top of Joanna’s head. 

“Your prayers won’t save him now, sweetling,” she said. “It’s best to come away.” 

“Please, Mother,” Joanna insisted. She looked up into Cersei’s face and saw the conflict before it settled into something not quite sympathy and not quite pity. 

“Very well,” she relented, brushing Joanna’s hair back tenderly. With a final kiss upon Joanna’s cheek, Cersei left the hallway. Joanna stood among the others, staring down at the ground. All of the men among her were familiar with death – even Varys, she was sure, as he had lived through her father’s rebellion. She had never seen a person die before, and she dreaded that it would be her own father. 

“You don’t have to stay, you know,” Renly said quietly. “Your father will understand. He even wanted Joffrey to leave.” 

“I want to,” she insisted softly. She swallowed back the tears threatening to overcome her, desperate to remain strong in front of the rest. 

It was then that the door opened again, Ned Stark stepping out. He looked at each of them before bowing his head. 

“Give him milk of the poppy,” he said. Maester Pycelle stepped forward, and Renly and Joanna followed. Renly put an arm around Joanna’s shoulders to comfort her as they walked into the room. Joanna took her place once more at Robert’s side as Pycelle administered the milk of the poppy. Robert seemed to breathe easier afterwards, his breath not constrained so much by his pain. 

Joanna kept her head bowed as she prayed, paying little attention to her father and Renly as Robert ignored Renly’s attempts to reminisce. She hadn’t noticed him leave, nor had she noticed that she and her father had been sitting in silence for several moments before he shook his hand in her grasp again. 

“What are you still doing here?” he asked gruffly. “I thought I told you to get out.” 

“Stand from the bed and throw me out,” she said quietly. “Otherwise, I’m staying.” 

That pulled a hearty chuckle from him, which quickly turned into a series of wheezes. Joanna squeezed his hand tighter, heart drumming in her chest. She had no idea how death worked; it made her anxious thinking that any moment could be his last. She didn’t know what to expect. 

“You’re too like me for your own good,” he said when the coughing subsided. “If you’d been more like your mother, all of our lives would’ve been easier.” 

Joanna said nothing, only lowering her eyes. She supposed he had a point – thinking back on it, much of her interaction with her father in her life occurred when her mother brought her to him for discipline. But she was happy not to be like her mother. And so long as she didn’t become a drunken fool in her older years, she saw no reason why being like her father was a bad thing. 

“I suppose that’s one good thing I’ve done in my life,” he said. “I’ve turned my daughter into a pious woman.” 

“The Warrior will give you your strength back,” she said quietly, feeling foolish. It sounded, to her ears, more like something Myrcella would say. She always thought of herself as too old to believe in things like fairy tales and miracles. She had never disbelieved in the gods before, as she’d never had the need for their blessings. But it truly was her first thought, to pray to the Warrior for her father’s strength to return to him. Saying out loud now made her realize how naive it made her sound. He chuckled again, quieter this time, with less breath. 

“I never needed blessings from the Warrior,” he said. “I was the warrior. I can’t get that back now. Pray to the Stranger to make it swift.” 

It was odd hearing the undertone of sorrow in his voice. She had never heard him sound anything but drunk and jolly or powerful and angry. She had nothing to say. Instead, she bowed her head once more in silent prayer, alternating her prayers to the Warrior and the Stranger to strengthen her father, to let him live a while longer. She didn’t notice that her prayers had drifted away into sleep until she was being woken again, on her knees and her father’s hand still between both of hers as her head lay on the bed. 

She rose her head to face the sound that awoke her. Her father’s breathing had become labored, he gargled and choke as he struggled to take breath. Immediately her heart hammered against her chest, her stomach feeling as though it had disappeared from inside her as her hands began to shake. She rose higher on her knees to see her father; he was pale, his eyes closed. He looked dead already. 

“Maester!” she cried. She tugged on her father’s hand as though it would wake him. “Maester!” 

Pycelle came shuffling in, his chains rattling like her father’s breath as he lumbered over to the bed. He leaned over it, examining her father briefly, but he made no move to help. 

“This is it, child,” he said. 

That last moment seemed to last forever to Joanna. It was an awful eternity, hearing her father’s breath slowly wither and fade. She was deaf to anything around her, focused solely on her father as he died. She wished she could have closed her eyes and ears to it, but she could not. She could do nothing but watch him, do nothing but listen, do nothing but feel as his hand became entirely limp in hers. Pycelle nodded and turned away to call for the Silent Sisters. 

Joanna could not move. She stared at her father, trying to process through her head that the sleeping figure of her father was, in fact, his corpse. She jumped when Ser Barristan’s gentle hand squeezed her shoulder. She looked up at him, eyes wide. 

“Come now, princess,” he said. She nodded dumbly, resting her father’s hand as gently as she could against the bed. She braced herself on the edge of the bed to stand, her knees screaming in protest. She hadn’t noticed before now how much they’d hurt from being knelt at the bedside all evening. Now they were stiff, and she shuffled like old Pycelle as Barristan led her out of the room with an arm around her shoulders like a shield from the corpse they left behind. 

Joanna could not understand how a man who’d had such a small role in being her father could leave such an impact on her. She could not understand how her father had been so alive only yesterday and now he was gone. The feeling in her chest was much like the feeling she’d been left with that evening after Bran Stark had fallen from the tower. It wasn’t quite sadness or grief, but it felt rather empty. Robert had been absent through much of her life, and yet it had never left her as shaken as it did now. It was a different absence, she supposed. She would never see her father again. The small moments of companionship and affection that had occurred between them would never happen again. The time of her life that she’d spent as her father’s daughter was over forever. Now she had only her mother. She crossed her arms over her chest, holding herself, comforting herself. She felt alone. 

Barristan saw her safely to her chambers, where the candles had burned low in her absence. Dorcas had waited up for her, and undressed her gently before tucking her into bed with all the affection of a mother; she brushed Joanna’s hair away from her face before caressing her cheek softly, promising in a gentle tone that things would be better again once she woke. 

Once she was alone in the dark, Joanna spent several moments awake. She closed her eyes, taking slow, deep breaths in and out, expecting each time to hear the sickly rattle of her father’s last breaths. Opening her eyes once more, she stared up at the canopy, trying to clear her brain of all thought of death and her father. Instead she focused on the embroidered pattern above her, the flowers and the deer and the careful beading, and on the quiet sounds of nighttime as they came through her window, crickets outside in the garden and the faraway crash of the waves. 

She fell asleep thoughtless, with little resistance, the same way her father had slipped away from life.


	17. Treason

It just didn’t sound true.

If someone had told her a week ago that she would wake up one morning and her father would be dead, her brother the king, and Ned Stark thrown in the dungeons for treason, she wouldn’t have believed it. Following the night of her father’s death, she had stayed abed all day with her handmaidens, listening to their conversation mindlessly as she tried to forget the death that she’d witnessed the night before. Desmera had stayed by her side all day, arriving at sunrise. Rhea was in and out, eagerly fetching more food any time they’d eaten their fill. Joanna’s cousins Cerenna and Myrielle, on the other hand, had only come to visit in the morning before some court intrigue drew them out of the room all day. 

They’d returned around dinnertime, eyes alight. Joanna had just found the energy to get up from bed, stretching her stiff limbs and stepping out into the fresh air and sunlight of her terrace. She paid no mind to her cousins’ chatter behind her, enjoying only the noise it created to fill the quiet in her head. The waves crashed against the rocks below her balcony, and she leaned against the railing, raising herself up onto the tips of her toes to see the swirling water below. She enjoyed the salty smell and the cool, coarse wind on her face. It invigorated her after spending the day hidden beneath the covers of her bed with her windows drawn. 

“Don’t you want to hear, Joanna?” Cerenna asked, stepping out onto the terrace with Myrielle and Desmera behind her. “It’s all anyone’s talking about.” 

“My father’s death?” she asked dryly. “I’ve heard about it.” 

“It’s not that,” Myrielle said gently, somewhat defensive. “It really is important. Lord Stark got arrested for treason today.” 

“Treason?” She turned to look at Desmera and cousins to see if they were joking. Joanna wasn’t really in a mood for jokes right now. But all three girls looked serious, the scandal of the news written on Cerenna’s face. “How could Ned Stark have been arrested for treason?” 

“Well…” Myrielle shifted on her feet, looking unsure. “No one’s really sure. I heard a rumor that he may have had a hand in killing the King.” 

“Piss off,” Joanna huffed, turning away. “That’s not true and you all know it.” 

“She was only telling you what the rumor was,” Desmera defended. “I heard it too. I’ve heard all sorts of rumors today, but I don’t think anyone really knows the truth.” 

Joanna was quiet, thinking. It sat entirely wrong in her stomach to hear that Ned Stark had been arrested for treason. What could he have done to incite the king’s wrath? She supposed that with Joffrey as king now, it didn’t have to be much. Or was this a belayed arrest, ordered by her father before he’d died? She couldn’t imagine it was. If her father had wanted Ned Stark arrested the night before, he certainly hadn’t shown it. Whatever Ned Stark had done, perhaps it had something to do with why he wanted to send Sansa and Arya back to Winterfell. That had been some days ago now, and they hadn’t left yet. She had thought that Ned Stark changed his mind. 

It did make her wonder about Sansa and Arya and the rest of the Stark household. What would they do now that their head was imprisoned? Would they go home? Joanna almost hoped they did. As much as she would despair in Sansa’s loss, it would surely be better for her to leave now that Joffrey was king and there were far fewer people to tell him no. 

A spray of water from the crashing waves splashed her face and she flinched out of her thoughts. She turned back to her handmaidens beside her. 

“What do you think really happened?” she asked them. The three girls exchanged a look with each other before Desmera shrugged. 

“I heard that Ned Stark was trying to take over the throne,” she said. “I heard that he arranged a plot to kill Joffrey. I don’t believe that, but…” 

“But?” Joanna pressed. Desmera seemed to hesitate before she shrugged again lamely. 

“If I was in a position to take power away from Joffrey, I’d certainly try. Wouldn’t you?” 

Joanna supposed she would. She agreed that an assassination plot didn’t sound likely, not for Ned Stark, but perhaps there was some truth in the rumor. She would certainly be happier for having Ned Stark on the throne over her brother, and she was sure much of the kingdom would feel the same if they knew what Joffrey was truly like. 

She rubbed her eyes with the heels of her hands, wishing that she could wake up from this dream that she seemed to have fallen into. The entire day still didn’t feel real; only the wind on the face and the occasional splash from the waves below assured her that she was truly awake. 

“None of this is right,” she said. “Father was supposed to die old and fat in his bed. And then somebody else would take the throne. I don’t know who…I don’t know… I don’t know what I imagined. But it wasn’t this.” 

Myrielle stepped forward to place a comforting hand on Joanna’s shoulder. 

“I know,” she soothed. “Life will feel normal again soon. You just need to give it time.” 

The opening of the door caught the attention of all the girls, and they saw Rhea leading in the servants who had come to bring their dinner. Joanna took a deep sigh, stepping away from the railing and leading her friends back inside. 

“Any news?” Cerenna asked Rhea, who shook her head. 

“It’s all the same rumors over and over,” she replied. “They get wilder and wilder as the day goes on.” 

Joanna sat at her table and let her chief servant, Dorcas, set out her meal. 

“How about you?” she asked. Dorcas looked somewhat surprised to be brought into the conversation, used to years of being nothing more than a fly on the wall. “What have you heard about Ned Stark’s arrest?” 

“It’s not my place to say,” Dorcas replied swiftly. 

“Come on,” Joanna pushed. “Surely the servants have heard more than the rest of us have.” 

“It’s like Lady Royce says, princess,” she said. “The rumors only get stranger. Everything but the truth is making its way through the keep right now.” 

Joanna hummed thoughtfully, turning back to her food. Spending the entire day in her bed eating all the pastries and lemon cakes that the servants could bring her hadn’t given her much of an appetite, but she nibbled at some pork nonetheless to keep her handmaids and servants from pestering her, as though skipping dinner after a day of eating desserts would make her starve to death. 

“I did hear, however,” Dorcas started slowly, hesitantly. All of the young ladies sat at the table looked up at her. She looked around at each other them, clearly unsure if she should continue. When Joanna raised her eyebrows at her silence, she sighed. “It wasn’t just Lord Stark. All of the Stark household were killed, even their septa.” 

“But what of the girls themselves?” Joanna asked, her heart falling into her stomach. “Joffrey couldn’t –” 

“Lady Sansa is with your mother, last I heard,” Dorcas replied quickly. 

“And the other one?” Myrielle asked. “The little one, what was her name? Anya?” 

“Arya,” Joanna said. Dorcas worried her lip. 

“All servants have been told to look for her,” she said. “I took that to mean that no one knows where she is.” 

Joanna set her fork down and slumped down in her chair. 

“Seven Hells,” she sighed. 

“I can’t believe it,” said Desmera, lowering her fork as well. The others around the table picked at their food, not seeming to have much of an appetite anymore. 

“I’m sorry,” said Dorcas. “I shouldn’t have said anything, my lady. I never meant to disturb you.” 

“I’d rather know now than find out later,” Joanna replied with a wave of her hand. Dorcas bowed her head and exited the room with the others who had come to serve them. Cerenna sighed glumly, letting her fork drop to her plate with a loud clatter before she crossed her arms over her chest. 

“King’s Landing was never like this before everyone left for Winterfell,” she said with a deep frown. Joanna frowned as well, suddenly feeling very deeply that she wished they had never gone North. 

“It wasn’t,” Myrielle agreed. “I think the Starks brought the trouble with them.” 

Joanna shook her head slowly. No, that wasn’t right. The Starks came to King’s Landing armed only with their clothes and a reserved attitude. Whatever it was that was stirring trouble in King’s Landing was already there, or perhaps it had appeared in their absence. She couldn’t see how the Stark family’s reservations could kick up so much unrest. Although, she admitted to herself, she never saw what Ned Stark was like in the meetings of the small council. 

“Even if the Starks caused all this,” she said, crossing her arms tightly over her chest with her mouth set in a thin line, “I don’t think it’s going to leave with them.” 

* * *

Since her father’s death, Joanna’s handmaidens did their best not to leave her alone. They seemed to work in shifts, her cousins often coming by in the morning and early afternoon, with Rhea and Desmera taking the less desirable shifts in the evening time. Shortly after dinner, Rhea and Joanna set themselves up in the comfortable lounging seats with their samplers on their laps. In the past few days, Joanna had warmed up to the loathed pastime, enjoying how the meticulous nature of needlepoint allowed her to focus on something other than the unrest that was happening elsewhere in the Red Keep. 

Deep orange light from the setting sun cast long shadows across the room, and aside from the quiet pull and crash of the waves below her balcony, it was quiet. Occasionally a gentle breeze swept in, rustling the curtains and the leaves of the ivy that climbed up the trellis that lined the sides of her balcony. It was the most peaceful that Joanna had felt in quite a while, the longest she’d gone without thinking of her father’s death or the circumstances surrounding Ned Stark’s arrest. 

And it didn’t last. A knock came at her door before long, and Joanna looked up from her embroidery in time to hear the Kingsguard at her door announce that Sansa Stark had come to see her. Not minding the interruption, Joanna called for her to be allowed in. It was only once Sansa stepped inside the room, looking as small and meek as a little dormouse, that Joanna realized that something was wrong. 

“Princess,” said Sansa softly with a gentle curtsy. She was always polite, and minded her manners better than anyone Joanna knew, but she wasn’t usually this formal. Joanna frowned. 

“Lady Sansa.” She stood, setting her sampler to the side. She observed Sansa, the way she avoided looking directly at her. She turned to Rhea, who was looking at Sansa with confusion, and placed a hand on her cheek. “Thank you so much for your company. I’d like to speak with Sansa alone.” 

“Of course,” said Rhea, standing and hugging Joanna briefly before brushing past Sansa to leave. Once the door was firmly closed, Sansa took another step forward. 

“What’s bothering you?” Joanna asked. She moved around the chairs to stand in front of Sansa, taking her hands gently. “Is it your father?” 

Sansa nodded gently. “After they arrested him, the Hound took me to see the Queen. Maester Pycelle and Lord Baelish and Lord Varys were there. They said my father was a traitor, that his treason made me an unfit wife for Joffrey –” 

The more she spoke, the more worked up she was getting. Her breaths were coming quick and heavy, tears welling in her eyes. Joanna shushed her, pulling her over to her bed and sitting her down. Joanna rubbed her hands over Sansa’s shoulders. 

“It’s alright,” she said. “Tell me what happened.” 

“They said I had to prove that I wasn’t a traitor,” Sansa said, chin quivering. “They made me write a letter to my brother, to Robb, to come to King’s Landing. They said that my father’s fate relied on whether or not Robb will come to bend the knee.” 

Joanna frowned. She knew her mother’s intimidation well, how her soft look of sharp disapproval made you want to do whatever you could to make her approve of you again. She didn’t doubt that Lord Baelish and Lord Varys were staring her down with gazes equally as piercing, didn’t doubt that Pycelle didn’t share any biting words to cripple her. She knew well that the people her mother surrounded herself with were no less vicious than she was. 

“Sansa, what did they say your father did?” 

“They said he plotted to steal Joffrey’s rightful throne,” she responded with a shaking voice. “But my father doesn’t want the throne! My mother said he didn’t even want to come here!” 

Perhaps some of the rumors had their truth to them after all. Joanna remembered what Desmera said. _If I was in a position to take power away from Joffrey, I’d certainly try. Wouldn’t you?_ Wouldn’t Lord Stark? Perhaps treason wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

A sob broke from Sansa’s mouth as she was no longer able to hold back the emotion that overwhelmed her. Joanna drew her close, wrapping her arms around the younger girl and letting her cry into her shoulder. She kept her arms tight around her, grip firm, as though to shield her. 

“I don’t know what to do,” Sansa wailed. “I shouldn’t have written that letter. What if Robb doesn’t come here and they kill my father? What if he does come, and they kill him? They killed my Septa, and I haven’t seen Arya –” 

“Hush,” Joanna bade. “Your brother is a man grown. He can handle himself, as can your father. And if your sister is gone from the Red Keep, then perhaps it’s for the best. As long as you’re alone here, Sansa, then your top priority must be yourself.” 

“I c-can’t let them say those things about my father,” she cried. “It’s not true!” 

“Does your father care more for your life or for his own?” Joanna asked, pulling away to catch Sansa's eye. Sansa hiccuped, looking up at her with red eyes. 

“For mine,” she answered quietly. 

“Then protect yourself first,” she said. “You did the right thing writing that letter. You’re in their good graces now, and it gave you the time to come here to me. Now, Sansa,” Joanna placed her hand’s on Sansa’s shoulders and made sure that she was looking at her before continuing, “My mother is a hard woman to please, but she’ll like you better if she thinks she can control you. I’ll help you do whatever it takes to get your father out of prison and you both out of King’s Landing. But until then, you need to keep her and Joffrey happy. Even if they make you grovel and say things you would never believe. Do you understand?” 

Sansa sniffed, tears dripping down her cheeks, but she nodded. Joanna pulled her close again, rubbing her back soothingly. 

“I don’t know what’s happening,” Sansa said quietly. Joanna squeezed her tighter, letting out a long breath to keep herself steady. She was much less use to Sansa if she was a crying mess as well. Still, in the moment, she allowed herself to relax slightly and take even the smallest bit of comfort in the other girl’s embrace. For just this second, this hidden moment they shared, they could be vulnerable together. She squeezed her eyes shut and took a long, shaky breath. 

“Nor do I."


	18. Baelor

When Joanna woke in the morning, the world was still different. Her father’s body was still cold, her brother still looked down at people from atop this iron throne, and the prospects of the people she cared for were still bleak. She had dreamt the night before of the North, surrounded by cold but shielded and comforted by Ghost’s warmth and heavy presence in her bed. As she sat that morning, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she found her bed occupied by a direwolf of a different color; Sansa’s bright red hair was fanned out across the pillow, and she looked more peaceful than Joanna had ever seen her. 

The two girls had lost track of time the evening before, when Joanna had invited Myrcella and Desmera to all stay together in her room. They ate pastries and sang songs and played games, keeping Sansa’s mind distracted from the appearance in court that awaited her this morning. Myrcella and Desmera had gone back to their own beds, Joanna’s bed not quite large enough to fit all four girls, but Sansa had stayed. Still sleepy, Joanna enjoyed the lingering peacefulness of the morning, of the sound of sea birds and Sansa’s quiet breathing. 

A knock came at her door and Joanna sighed, calling for the servants to enter. They filed in, bringing breakfast and fresh water for the porcelain wash basin. It was a gentle start to the day, one which Joanna was sure would not be gentle to Sansa. She turned to the younger girl and gently shook her awake. Sansa squinted into the bright light of the morning, looking to Joanna and then to the servants. 

“Morning already?” She sounded disappointed. 

“Come on,” said Joanna. “Let’s have breakfast before we get ready.” 

Sansa rose from the bed slowly, reluctant. She sat and watched the servants bustle around the tables, setting out their silverware and plates, which they piled high with food. It all looked delicious, but Sansa couldn’t muster an appetite. Joanna walked around the bed to take both of Sansa’s hands in hers and pull her up. 

“Come on,” she urged again, steadying Sansa once she stood. “Whatever is going to happen today hasn’t happened yet. But what is happening is breakfast – so let’s enjoy, shall we?” 

She pulled Sansa by the hand over the table, sitting her down before taking a seat of her own. Joanna indulged in her breakfast, but Sansa did little more than move the food around on her plate. She hardly said a word all through breakfast, and they were halfway through getting ready for the day when she finally spoke again. 

“I heard that my brother called the banners of the North,” she said. 

Joanna turned to look at her, surprised, before having her head tugged back into place by the servant currently doing her hair. 

“Is that so?” she said. 

“Does that mean…that he’s going to war? Against your family?” 

Probably, Joanna thought – but it wasn’t pessimism that Sansa needed this morning. Still, Joanna had been told by her cousin Myrielle that Jaime had left King’s Landing, and that the other men in their extended family had been called to the field. It didn’t bode well, and Joanna couldn’t bring herself to tell Sansa no. 

“Not necessarily,” she said. “If we can get your father released, they may all go home.” 

“What if I can’t get him released?” Sansa asked, despair creeping into her voice. “What if they kill my father?” 

“Sansa,” Joanna said sharply. “Do you remember what I said to you last night?” 

She had to think for a moment, before she nodded slowly. “Protect myself first.” 

“That’s right. Do all you can to get your father released, but if that fails, you are the only one in this keep you need to worry about protecting.” 

Sansa nodded, looking down at her hands clasped together in her lap. Joanna sighed. 

“War is expensive. If my brother and the council know what’s good for them, they’ll grant your father mercy. That’s the only way for them to avoid meeting your brother in the field.” 

“And you think they’ll do that?” she asked. Joanna thought for a moment. She truly couldn’t say just how much Joffrey would listen to the council, but she knew he didn’t like being told what to do. The council could advise all they want, but Joffrey had always done what made him happy. This time, she had to be honest. 

“I don’t know.” 

As the servants finished with her hair, a knock came at the door. Joanna turned in her seat to see Dorcas, her chief servant, peek her head inside. 

"The guards are here for Lady Sansa, princess," said Dorcas, looking worried. Joanna frowned. 

"Thank them for their concern, but I can accompany Lady Sansa on my own," she said. 

"They're insisting, my lady," Dorcas replied. 

Joanna sighed, mouth set in a line. It baffled her that her mother, or her brother, could possibly think that Sansa - a thirteen-year-old girl, and the sweetest girl that Joanna had ever met - would need an armed guard to accompany her to the throne room. Nevertheless, she was not currently in a position to argue with whoever had given the guards their orders. She stood, taking Sansa's hand in hers. 

"Let's go, then," she said, and kept their fingers interlocked as they were led through the keep and to the throne room. Sansa was quiet the whole way, and the blood had gone from her face, leaving her porcelain skin pale as ever. They closer they got to the throne room, the more Joanna could feel Sansa's hands start to shake. As they reached the dais overlooking the throne room, they paused. The guards urged them to move forward, but Joanna shushed them and turned back to Sansa. 

"You remember what I said? Last night?" she asked quietly, and Sansa nodded. Joanna leaned in to give the young girl a kiss on the cheek. "I'll be right here the whole time." 

Sansa nodded. The guards nudged her forward, and she continued down the steps towards the front of the court. Joanna watched on nervously, fiddling with her fingers from where she'd placed her hands atop the railing. Her mother and Joffrey looked absolutely pleased to see that Sansa had arrived; Joanna felt anger churn in her stomach. Was the matching cruelty on their faces really there, or was she making that up? 

"...lastly, in these times of turmoil, it is the view of the council that the life and safety of King Joffrey be of paramount importance," finished Maester Pycelle, who'd been droning on about today's announcements and proclamations as they'd entered. 

"Ser Barristan Selmy," said Cersei as she stood from her seat at Joffrey's right hand. Barristan stepped away from the line of Kingsguard that stood before the throne, walking to the middle of the court to present himself. 

"Your Grace," he said as he bent to his knee, "I am yours to command." 

"Rise, Ser Barristan. You may remove your helm." 

It was an unusual request. Ser Barristan paused in confusion before obeying. Joanna heard the court erupt in whispers, and she had to say that she was rather confused herself. 

"You have served the realm long and faithfully. Every man and woman in the Seven Kingdoms owes you thanks. But it is time to put aside your armor and your sword. It is time to rest, and look back with pride on your many years of service." 

"Your Grace, the Kingsguard is a sworn brotherhood," said Ser Barristan. "Our vows are taken for life - only death relieves us of our sacred trust." 

"Whose death, Ser Barristan? Yours, or your king's?" 

"You let my father die," spat Joffrey, leaning forward in his seat. "You're too old to protect anybody." 

"Your Grace - " 

"The council has determined that Ser Jaime Lannister will take your place as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard." 

"A man who profaned his blade with the blood of the king he had sworn to defend!" said Barristan. 

"Careful, Ser," Cersei warned. Varys, the Spider, chose this moment to step in with his silken words. 

"We have nothing but gratitude for your long service, good ser," he said. "You shall be given a stout keep, beside the sea, with servants to look after your every need." 

But Ser Barristan Selmy was a warrior, who had fought for King Aerys and King Robert. He did not want whatever sweet tale the Spider could spin. 

"A hall to die in, and men to bury me." He reached to unclasp his cloak from his shoulder. "I am a knight. I shall _die_ a knight." 

He threw his cloak and helm and gauntlets to the ground. 

"A naked knight, apparently," Littlefinger quipped, and the court laughed. Ser Barristan drew his sword and the laughs died as the Kingsguard standing before the throne drew theirs. The tension rose in the room in the brief silence that followed. Joanna was suddenly very glad to be up on the dais and not down on the court floor, where she was almost sure that a swordfight was about to break out. It would be bloody, and glorious to behold - and it would be nothing that the rest of the Kingsguard wouldn't surely deserve. 

But Ser Barristan was a much nobler person than Joanna surely would've been in his place. 

"Even now, I could cut through the five of you like carving a cake!" he said, and Joanna believed him. He tossed his sword down to the floor. "Here, boy! Melt it down and add it to the others." 

He turned and left from the throne room through the main doors. Joanna hoped that her brother and all the rest of them felt as foolish as he'd just made them look - they deserved it. Ser Barristan had served her family well. For as long as she could remember, he had always been the kindest of the Kingsguard to her, even above her uncle, whose indifference toward her seemed to grow as she did. But she didn't have any time to fume before it was Sansa's turn before the court. 

"If any man in the hall has any other matters to set before His Grace, let him speak now, or go forth and hold his silence," said the court announcer. 

"Your Grace," said Sansa, meek voice echoing in the large hall. Joffrey smiled. 

"Move forward, my lady." 

She did as she was bidden, stepping to the center of the court as she was announced. 

"Do you have any business for the King and the council, Sansa?" asked Cersei. She was smiling and looked expectant. Joanna looked between the three carefully. 

"I do," said Sansa, and she knelt, and her voice shook as she spoke. "As it please Your Grace, I ask mercy for my father, Lord Eddard Stark who is Hand of the King." 

"Treason is a noxious weed!" Pycelle, the old bag, looked outraged. "It should be torn out! Rooted - " 

"Let her speak," said Joffrey. "I want to hear what she says." 

I want her to grovel before me, Joanna was sure he meant. 

"Thank you, Your Grace," said Sansa. 

Littlefinger spoke up now. "Do you deny your father's crime?" 

"No, my lords. I know he must be punished. All I ask is mercy. I know my lord father must regret what he did, he was King Robert's friend and he loved him - you all know he loved him. He never wanted to be hand until the King asked him. They must have lied to him - Lord Renly, o-or Lord Stannis, or somebody - they must have lied!" 

The desperation was creeping into Sansa's voice the more she spoke. Joanna looked to her mother and to Joffrey, expecting to see that they were pleased at Sansa's show, but rather Cersei looked calculating - and Joffrey looked genuinely confused. 

"He said I wasn't the King. Why did he say that?" 

"He was badly hurt. Maester Pycelle was giving him milk of the poppy. He wasn't himself, otherwise he never would've said it." 

"A child's faith," said Varys, looking moved. "Such sweet innocence. And yet they say wisdom oft comes from the mouths of babes." 

"Treason is treason!" Pycelle insisted, looking from Varys to Sansa. 

"Anything else?" Joffrey asked. Joanna sucked in a breath. 

"If you still have any affection in your heart for me, please, do me this kindness, Your Grace," Sansa begged. 

Joffrey sat back in his throne and seemed to consider Sansa's request. Joanna watched him, but she couldn't determine if he was truly considering it or if it was all for show. 

"Your sweet words have moved me," he said. Joanna was hit by the sudden realization that he was truly considering her plea - or, rather, whether or not she had groveled enough for his liking. It was in his demeanor, in his face, in his tone. It was exactly how he sounded when he decided that his younger siblings had begged for him to stop enough for him to finally end his torment. She knew he was enjoying this. "But your father has to confess. He has to confess and say that I'm the King. Or there'll be no mercy for him." 

Sansa nodded, resolute. "He will." 

* * *

Joffrey was not patient, and had set the confession to occur the following evening. Joanna had promised Sansa that she would be there, that she wouldn’t have to be alone there with the council and the queen. She had dressed her best, still in her dark mourning gowns, which her mother and the rest of the court had seemed to move away from quite quickly. In the late afternoon, they all crossed the city to the Sept of Baelor, where Lord Stark’s confession would occur on the steps. 

Joffrey sneered and smiled when he saw her. 

“Come to watch the show?” he asked. 

“I’m here for Sansa,” she answered. Joffrey frowned. 

“I’m your brother,” he said, as though that should inspire loyalty in her despite the mutual hatred they’d shared as long as she could remember. 

“Sansa is still your betrothed,” she said. “She’ll be my sister one day.” 

That did not please him, as he stepped closer to her and pointed to his chest. “I’m your King.” 

“When you marry, she’ll be my Queen,” Joanna insisted. She stepped past him. “I’m here for her.” 

She continued up to the landing in front of the great doors of the temple. She had been to the Sept twice before in her life, for the funerals of Jon Arryn and her father. It was not a place that she particularly enjoyed being, and getting to it was always an ordeal, as the entourage moved slowly through the crowd. For as much as she hated being cooped up in the keep, she also could not stand the crowded city. 

The people of King’s Landing had flocked to the Sept to see Lord Stark confess his crimes. They were loud, crying about the traitor and holding their fists in the air. Joanna stepped up beside Sansa, touching her arm gently. From across the courtyard, they could see goldcloaks leading Lord Stark out from the dungeons. The crowd roared louder when they caught sight of him, grabbing at him, cursing him and demanding his head. 

“They hate him,” Sansa said softly. 

“All that matters is your father’s confession,” she assured her. “What the people think holds no weight.” 

The crowd quieted as Lord Stark took his place at the center of the landing. He looked out over the crowd for a moment before his confession began. 

“I am Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Hand of the King.” He turned to look at Sansa – for strength or affirmation, Joanna didn’t know – before turning back to continue his confession. “I come before you to confess my treason in the sight of gods and men. I betrayed the faith of my King, and the trust of my friend Robert. I swore to protect and defend his children, but before his blood was cold, I plotted to murder his son, and seize the throne for myself.” 

The crowd cried out again. Joanna put her arm around Sansa’s shoulders in comfort, squeezing gently when she jumped at a rock that had hit Lord Stark. An unusual wave of resentment rose in Joanna’s stomach at the people in the crowd. What did they know of any of this? Only lies that they were told, from Lord Stark’s mouth or anyone else’s. She wondered briefly if Sansa was naïve for thinking her father innocent, or if she was naïve for believing her. 

“Let the High Septon and Baelor the Blessed bear witness to what I say. Joffrey Baratheon is the one true heir to the iron throne by the grace of all the gods, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm.” 

The crowd still was not pleased at Lord Stark’s proclamation, crying out once more. Sansa looked to them in shock, before turning to Joanna. She shushed the girl, directing her attention to Maester Pycelle, who spoke now. 

“The gods are just, but beloved Baelor taught us that they can also be merciful.” He turned to Joffrey. “What is to be done with this traitor, Your Grace?” 

Joffrey rose his hand to quiet the clamor of the crowd. 

“My mother wishes me to let Lord Eddard join the Night’s Watch, stripped of all titles and power so you would serve the realm in permanent exile. And my lady Sansa has begged mercy for her father.” He was quiet for a moment. Sansa smiled. Joffrey turned back to the crowd. “But they have the soft hearts of women. As long as I am your king, treason shall never go unpunished. Ser Ilyn, bring me his head.” 

The three women beside Joffrey shot towards him immediately. Joanna shouted in anger, Sansa cried in fear, and Cersei spoke in harsh and level tones. A kingsguard grabbed Sansa by the arms and held her back when she stepped towards her father. Joanna turned from Joffrey, who was ignoring all pleas for him to be merciful – to be smart – and turned towards their mother. 

“You can’t let him do this,” she said, tugging on her mother’s sleeve like an insistent child. Cersei’s sole focus was on Joffrey. 

“Listen to me. Stop this,” she hissed. Joffrey only tugged his arm out of her grip, smiling with glee at Lord Stark. Lord Varys hurried over, beseeching Joffrey to have mercy, but his voice was lost among the riotous voices of the crowd. Joffrey seemed to revel in their excitement, shifting from foot. 

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing!” Joanna cried, growing more desperate as more time passed with nothing changing. Cersei was silent now, had stepped away from Joffrey, but Joanna was not so quickly subdued. “You can’t let this happen! This isn’t –” 

“Don’t look,” Cersei cut in, turning towards her sharply. Over her shoulder, Lord Stark was being pushed to his knees. Sansa was wailing in her ears and Joanna didn’t know what to think about first. 

“Mother, please!” 

“If you don’t turn away, you’ll never forget it,” she said. The glint of sunlight on steel over her shoulder caught Joanna’s attention. She hadn’t meant to, it was just a reaction, but she turned her head to look. The sword fell heavy through the air and down upon Lord Stark’s neck. In an instant, his head was on the ground, and a rush of blood followed. Joanna started physically, staring wide-eyed at the body before them. 

“Gods,” she whispered. 

A heavy weight fell against her legs and she stumbled away, turning to see Sansa’s limp body on the ground. Joanna stared for a moment, slow to process what was happening after the shock of what she’d seen. She blinked, shaking her head and kneeling down at Sansa’s side. 

“Someone pick her up,” she barked, unsure of who was near to follow her orders, but the kingsguard who’d been holding Sansa back came to her side. “Get her back to the Red Keep before she wakes.” 

“The King hasn’t ordered, my lady,” the knight said. Joanna looked up at him, staring for a moment. 

“I am the King’s family and you will do as I say!” she snapped. “Take her back to the Keep now!” 

He hesitated for a moment before sliding his arms beneath Sansa and lifting her from the floor. Joanna stood, sucking in a deep breath. She wasn’t sure how long it had been since she’d last taken a breath – or how long it would be before the rolling in her stomach would make her sick. She followed Ser Mandon off of the bloodied platform, leaving the screaming crowd and the corpse of Lord Eddard behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're all caught up now! A new chapter will be coming here and to ff.net very soon!


	19. Letter

_Dearest Princess Joanna –_

That was too familiar, wasn’t it? Robb scribbled out the writing on the parchment, staring down at the long list of greetings that he’d started and then decided against. He had never before had such trouble starting a letter. He would have dictated it to his squire if he’d had any idea what he wanted to say. In truth, this whole idea was a last-ditch attempt, but Robb would do anything in the world if he thought it would keep his sisters safe from the same people who killed their father. As far as he could tell, there was only one person in King’s Landing who was remotely sympathetic towards his cause. 

He tried again. 

_Princess Joanna –_

Was that too blunt? He decided to continue nonetheless, figuring that if too blunt of a letter greeting would offend her, then there was little he could do to help it. 

_I wish I could be writing under better circumstances, but I must request something of you._

His hand paused, hovering over the paper, as he considered whether or not he should have acknowledged his request so soon in the letter. Perhaps he should have included other pleasantries beforehand? If he were honest, he didn’t care about anything other than her response to his appeal. 

_You are the only one in King’s Landing who has been friendly and sympathetic towards my family. As such, I must ask for your help in the release and return of my sisters._

Was she truly friendly and sympathetic? His mother had insisted to him that she had vehemently protested her uncle’s arrest at the Crossroads Inn. All he knew was that, the last time he had seen her, she had been kind and considerate to him and to Bran. He did not know if he was a fool for trusting her still, or a fool for writing to her. If she truly was untrustworthy, he couldn’t see how his letter would put them in any worse position than they were in now. 

_If it is possible, I must request that you petition your brother for my sisters’ safe return. In return, your uncle Jaime Lannister will be released and seen safely to King’s Landing. Until such an exchange can be fulfilled, or in lieu of your brother’s agreement to these terms, I also ask that you ensure the safety of my sisters._

_House Stark is an honorable house, and has treated your uncle favorably during his imprisonment. I must request that my sisters are given the same treatment. Do not allow them to be punished on my behalf, just as your uncle has not been punished for King Joffrey’s crimes against my family._

_I know that these are requests which are not easy to fulfill. Nevertheless, I must ask one more of you: please return word of my sisters’ wellbeing. I value your response to this request above all else._

_Robb Stark_

Deciding that this was sufficient, he folded the parchment and sealed it with his sigil. He hoped desperately that he was right in believing that Joanna would help him, that at the very least she would tell him whether or not Sansa and Arya were safe and well-kept in King’s Landing. He thought of Jaime Lannister, covered in mud and bound with chains. He dreaded imagining his sisters in such a state. He’d be furious to know they were being kept the same way, but he knew that his bannermen would protest better accommodations for their prisoner. 

He hoped that soon a raven would return happy news, that Sansa and Arya were unharmed and – he hoped desperately – soon on their way back home. Until that raven arrived, the war would wage on. 

* * *

With a loud clang of metal against metal, the knight was thrown over the wall, landing with a lound thump on the ground far below. Joanna leaned forward in her seat to see, surprised, though she sat back when Joffrey leapt forward to peer down at the knight. Their enjoyment in watching swordplay and jousts was the only thing the two siblings shared between them, but the glee on Joffrey's face at every spot of blood or crack of bone left a sour taste in Joanna's mouth. She enjoyed the sport, but he enjoyed the injury.  


"Well struck, dog!" he called as the Hound removed his helm. He turned to Sansa and pointed down at the knight's unmoving body. "Did you like that?"  


"It was well struck, Your Grace," Sansa agreed in a soft voice.  


"I already said it was well struck."  


Sansa paused, looking him up and down.  


"Yes, Your Grace."  


He looked at her in disgust for a moment, before turning back to the revelries of the day. With his attention away, Joanna reached out to squeeze Sansa's hand, folded neatly in her lap. Sansa didn't look at her, only turned her eyes down to where their hands were connected and gave a half-hearted squeeze back. Joanna returned her hand to her own lap, making sure they were settled before Joffrey returned his attention to them again.  


She had watched him carefully all morning, wondering. Rumor was spreading quicker than wildfire through the Seven Kingdoms, spread by her Uncle Stannis himself, who was calling himself the King of Dragonstone. It was vile, the insinuation that her mother would sleep with her own brother. She was sickened by the notion that she alone of her siblings was the daughter of Robert Baratheon. Perhaps she could believe that Joffrey, with his his sneers and unsettling glee at the suffering of others, was the product of such a revolting union. But not the others, not Myrcella and Tommen, despite the utter lack of Baratheon features anywhere in their faces. They were too sweet and innocent to have come from something so foul.  


Nobody was particularly comfortable as they watched Joffrey berate the drunkard knight who'd arrived stumbling with his helmet. He was dragged away by Ser Meryn Trant, forced onto his knees and held in place as more Kingsguard approached to pour a barrel of wine down his throat. Joanna looked away, frowning. Only Sansa was brave enough to speak up.  


"You can't!" she said. Joffrey turned to her with vicious eyes.  


"What did you say? Did you say _I can't?_ "  


"I only meant...it would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day."  


"What kind of stupid peasant superstition -?"  


"The girl is right," the Hound stepped in. "What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year."  


Joffrey sighed. "Take him away," he commanded. "I'll have him killed tomorrow, the fool."  


"He is," said Sansa. "A fool - you're so clever to see it. He'll make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn't deserve the mercy of a quick death."  


Joanna looked at Sansa with surprise, examining her face even as Joffrey spoke. She looked the same as she always had, gentle and sweet, but was that a spark of determination that Joanna saw in her eyes? Her train of thought was interrupted by an unexpected voice.  


"Beloved nephew!" came the call. Everyone's attention turned to Lord Tyrion, who entered with several warriors at his back. Joanna's heart leapt - she'd known her uncle had survived his kidnapping by Lady Stark, but she would never truly believe that he was alright until she saw him herself. And now here he was, clad in armor, looking as fine as ever.  


"We looked for you on the battlefield," he said as he approached. "And you were nowhere to be found!"  


"I've been here, ruling the kingdoms!" Joffrey replied.  


"And what a fine job you've done," said Tyrion, having already served himself a glass of wine. He turned to Myrcella, smiling and leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Look at you! More beautiful than ever. And you -" he turned to Tommen. "Why, you're going to be bigger than the Hound - but much better looking!" He chuckled, motioning to the Hound. "This one doesn't like me."  


"Can't imagine why," replied a knight he'd arrived with.  


"We heard you were dead," said Joffrey with barely concealed scorn.  


"I'm glad you're not dead," Myrcella cut in.  


"Me too, dear. Death is so boring, especially now with so much excitement in the world." He turned to Sansa, and said in a gentle voice, "My lady, I'm sorry for your loss."  


Joffrey looked between them with incredulity. "Her loss? Her father was a confessed traitor!"  


"But still her father. Surely having recently lost your own beloved father you can sympathize."  


Joffrey turned to Sansa expectantly. She turned to Tyrion.  


"My father was a traitor. My mother and brother are traitors, too. I am loyal to my beloved Joffrey."  


"Of course you are," said Tyrion, then look a long swig of his wine before turning to Joanna. She shrunk in on herself. "Well. If it isn't my beloved niece. Remind me again, when was the last time I saw you?"  


"I was following _your_ orders," she retorted. "You can't possibly be mad."  


He gave her a smile, reaching forward to grab her hand and give her a kiss on the cheek.  


"Of course not," he replied. He motioned behind him to the group of warriors that had followed him in. "Besides, if not for you, I would never have met my friends here. Now," he finished his wine and placed the goblet on the table before them. "Enjoy your name day, Your Grace. I wish I could stay and celebrate, but there is work to be done."  


"Work?" asked Joffrey, standing. "Why are you here?"  


But Tyrion did not answer; he exited without a word, followed by the group of warriors that had followed him in.

* * *

Joanna frowned down at the letter in her hands. It had been delivered to her chambers while she was attending Joffrey’s name day celebration, and she’s found it placed neatly upon her desk when she’d returned. The wolf’s head stamped into the grey wax had shocked her. She fumbled to tear open the letter and read it, eyes scanning the page almost frantically.  


She had hoped perhaps it was good news, though she wasn’t entirely sure what she was expecting to hear. Maybe Robb Stark had thought of a solution? Maybe her mother and uncle had been absent from Joffrey’s celebration because they were busy negotiating Sansa’s exchange? But alas. It seemed that Robb was as powerless to influence her mother as she was. At least he could wage war to force her mother’s hand. The only war Joanna could hope to wage was by raising her voice and proving to be, ultimately, hardly more than a nuisance to be locked up in her room.  


At the very least, she could fulfill Robb’s last wish to update him about his sisters’ wellbeing. It seemed that he was, so far, unaware of Arya’s disappearance. A troubling thought, but Joanna found relief that she was not trapped in the cage of the Red Keep like her sister was. Joanna had not had the chance to know Arya well, but as far as she could tell, the young Stark girl was wily and would, hopefully, do alright for herself on the city streets.  


Sansa was doing surprisingly well. With all her sweetness and naivety, Joanna had expected her to wilt like a dying flower in the weeks following her father’s death. She had rather found herself surprised when she continued as ever, terrified and often tearful in the privacy of Joanna’s company, but quietly and gracefully strong when subjected to Joffrey’s attentions. Joanna had made a note to herself not to underestimate her young friend again.  


A brief knock came at the door before the guard announced her mother’s arrival. Joanna only had the brief time as the door swung open to shove Robb’s letter haphazardly into the tight confines of her corset, adjusting her gown’s neckline to ensure that the crumpled parchment was well concealed. Cersei swept in as she always did, with measured magnificence, coming to a stop right in the center of Joanna’s room with her hands clasped in front of her and an expectant look on her face.  


“Mother,” she greeted, forcing a smile that she hoped looked much less forced than it felt.  


“I heard that you received a letter from Robb Stark,” her mother stated in lieu of a greeting. She looked Joanna up and down with a distrustful look, and she found herself feeling almost offended. “What on earth could the Stark boy have to say to you?”  


In a split second, Joanna considered her options. She could tell the complete truth, or she could make up a lie. Either way, it could lead to her mother wanting to see the letter, in which case she would have to come up with a reason for pulling it out of her corset. If she did that, she was sure her mother would suspect that she was conspiring with Robb Stark in some way. She was, granted, but the idea was for her mother not to know. Instead, she decided on a different lie altogether.  


“I haven’t a clue,” she said with a shrug. “I burnt it on a candle as soon as I saw who it was from.”  


Cersei let out a huff, brushing past Joanna to serve herself a drink from the wine pitcher that sat on her table.  


“Did you not consider that there may have been something written in that letter that could have been useful to us?”  


Joanna rolled her eyes. _Gods, there’s no winning with you, is there?_ she thought. She turned and gave her mother the most innocent smile she could muster. After seventeen years of mischief and arguing, however, she wasn’t sure her face remembered how to do such a thing.  


“You're right, mother. Forgive me. I thought only that I didn’t want to bear a treasonous letter.”  


Cersei turned to look at her once more, eyes narrowed and calculating. Mothers knew her children, and Cersei of all people in the world knew how full of shit Joanna could be when she was trying to get her way. But Joanna was almost _always_ trying to get her way; the trick was puzzling out when she was lying and when she wasn’t.  


“After all,” Joanna continued, as though to convince her further, “after all the trouble the Starks have caused, I’ve had enough to do with them.”  
Her mother stared her down for another moment, finally breaking her gaze when she tipped back her goblet to take a big drink of wine.  


“Very well,” she said. “Should you receive another letter from the Stark boy, bring it straight to me.”  


Her mother swept past her and was out the door almost as quickly as she came. Joanna let out a long sigh once she was gone, shifting in discomfort as she crinkled edges of the parchment in her corset scratched her skin. That was the woman that Robb Stark wanted her to appeal to. Did he know what he was asking of her? After all the trouble she got in by telling Ned Stark about her uncle’s arrest, she was sure her mother would never trust her again. Clearly she had people watching her if she knew as soon as Joanna did that she’d received a letter.  


Not as though it would stop Joanna. Perhaps it was a bad idea, but she was discontent knowing that the only good idea for her was to sit quiet and complacent as the war became more serious and violent. She pulled the letter from her corset, smoothing it and reading it over twice more before lighting it upon a candle and dropping it in the metal pail to let it burn.


	20. Weeds

Far below in the city, beneath the towering Red Keep and its residents within, something awful was happening. Civilians rushed home, heads ducked, drawing in the shutters. Around them, seemingly at random, the gold cloaks searched for children. Boy and girl alike were torn away from their mothers, picked out by the guards to meet a terrible fate. By sunset, the massacre – however small – was over. Without explanation, the bodies of those unlucky few were left to rot away. 

The privilege of the higher classes was not to be concerned about such matters. Indeed, taking her supper alone in her room, Joanna was none the wiser of the suffering of nameless, faceless children in the city that seemed so far away. She opened the doors to her balcony, enjoying the sea breeze the way she liked to, pondering over which dish to dig into first. It was difficult to remember the last time she’d eaten dinner alone, or done anything on her own, and she took the chance to enjoy the company of her own thoughts. She loved the presence and attentions of her friends, but there was no person she agreed with more in the world than her own self. 

For a brief time, she’d considered requesting the presence of her uncle, eager to hear firsthand the adventure he’d been on after they’d parted ways at the Crossroads Inn. Rumor was abound in the Red Keep now that he’d returned, some certainly fake and some certainly true. Joanna could, for the most part, suss out the real from the fake, but hearing the tale from the source was invaluable. 

Not to mention, he probably deserved a far better apology than she one she’d given. Going to Ned Stark about his arrest rather than either of her parents probably hadn’t helped his already precarious situation. If she had to swallow her pride and truly, meaningfully apologize to her uncle, it might as well be over dinner where she had more than enough wine to drown out her uncle’s japes or admonitions. 

A knock came at her door, and she frowned, hoping that she would have more time to decide whether to invite her uncle to eat. 

“Who is it?” she called, resting her chin on her hand. The door opened and Ser Boros Blount stepped in. It was unusual, but not enough so to hold Joanna’s attention. Best she figured, her mother sent him as a messenger for some complaint or another. “What is it now?” 

“I’ve been sent by the King,” Ser Boros answered. Joanna popped a grape into her mouth disinterestedly. 

“Did he?” she snorted. “Gods. I can’t imagine for what.” 

Ser Boros carefully closed the door behind him. As soon as it had thudded shut, he began to walk towards her with purpose. This caught her attention; the chair scraped across the floor as she stood abruptly, moving to put the table between her and the knight. He had drawn the dagger from his belt now. Her gaze darted across the room, trying to procure an escape route, a method of protection, anything. 

"Whatever you think you're doing, I command you to stop it, _now_." Her voice wavered as she spoke. 

"King Joffrey's orders," Ser Boros responded, lunging over the table to grab her. She cried out, trying to jerk away from him, but he caught her by the sleeve and pulled her around the table. He struggled to hold her with one arm as she flailed in his grasp, screaming and reaching back to scratch his face. When he raised the dagger, she threw her hands out, reaching for the blade. 

She cried out again when she closed her hand around the blade, screaming as he tried to wrench it out of her grip, but she grabbed his wrist with her other hand to keep him at arms length. He cursed, grunting as he struggled against her. The dagger blade was pulled out of her hand with a great tug, and he brought it down again upon her. She tried to twist away from the blade, but held in his grip, it pierced the flesh of her shoulder. 

Joanna lost her balance when Ser Boros's weight suddenly disappeared, tripping over tangled feet and tumbling to the floor. She cried out as she caught herself on her torn and bloodied hand, looking over her shoulder to find an unknown man with his sword hilt-deep in Ser Boros's gut. When he removed his sword and straightened up, leaving the knight's body to fall limp to the ground, Joanna saw that he was the companion who'd arrived at the tourney with her uncle. 

She jumped violently when a hand came in contact with her shoulder, startled to find that Tyrion was standing beside her. He removed his hands from her, holding them out as if placating a wary dog. A rush of breath left her and her shoulders slumped, body shaking and weak. 

"Gods," she said, voice wavering. 

"Let me see you," said Tyrion, gently taking her injured hand in his. Once he had finished inspecting it, he turned his attention to her bloodied shoulder, reaching to touch it gently. "You need to see the Maester. Can you stand?" 

She nodded, sniffling, suddenly aware of the tears that had fallen down her cheeks. Tyrion shepherded her down halls and up stairs until they reached the Tower of the Hand, his companion tailing them with his hand on the hilt of his sword. 

The quarters looked no different now than they had looked when Ned Stark had lived within them. Tyrion sat her at the seat of the desk, digging a length of fabric from a drawer to tie around her hand. Once she was settled, he dragged a chair from opposite the desk to sit facing her. 

"Bronn, fetch Maester Pycelle and bring him here, quickly." Once Bronn was gone, he turned his attention to Joanna, lowering his voice gently. "Tell me what happened." 

"I don't know," she said softly, trying to think. Everything in her brain was buzzing. It was like how she felt when she watched Ned Stark die only multitudes worse. She rubbed her wet and raw eyes with her uninjured hand. "I was just - just sitting there, eating my dinner. Ser Boros came in and said that Joffrey sent him. And then he -" her voice trembled and her shoulders shook, "he took out his dagger and he -" 

"Alright," said Tyrion, shushing her softly and reaching to pat her knee. "You're safe now. I'll arrange for someone to clean up your room before the end of the night." 

Joanna stared down at the bandage over her hand, watching the blood bloom and spread. Her shoulder was aching badly; she dreaded the thought of what the Maester would have to do to fix it. She had been hurt before, but she had never needed her skin stitched back together. 

And yet, despite her pain, it wasn't her injuries at the fore of her mind. It was what Ser Boros had said when he walked in the room. He had come at her brother's behest. Did Joffrey truly hate her so? What had she done to deserve it? Perhaps it was simply opportunity, she thought. Perhaps she was enough of a nuisance, and he had the power to send someone to kill her, so he did. Or perhaps it was something else. 

"Uncle Tyrion," she started, voice quiet but steadier than before. "Do you think it's true? The lie - the....the _rumor_ about my mother and Uncle Jaime." 

Tyrion frowned and looked at her face, calculating. She was lost in thought, staring blankly at the wall over her shoulder. She had been through enough trauma, he thought. 

"People will create vicious lies to discredit you," he said. 

"It's not about _me_ ," she replied. "I'm my father's daughter, a blind man could see it. But not Joffrey, right? That's what they say." 

"Joanna," he said, almost sternly. "It's a rumor - nothing more." 

"Not to Joffrey. He must think it's true." She nodded to herself, as though confirming what she was saying to be true. "He must, he must..." 

The door opened, bringing Bronn and Maester Pycelle to the room. Pycelle made a beeline to Joanna; while he was occupied, Tyrion pulled Bronn to the doorway, keeping his voice low. 

"Take my niece to her room once Pycelle is done," he said. "Stand at her door - don't leave her side. I'll be back later." 

"And where are you going?" Bronn asked with a cocked eyebrow. Tyrion set his mouth in a line. 

"To make arrangements." 

* * *

Tyrion had been back in the city for barely a week, and already the list of things he needed to take care of was nearly taller than he was. He was preoccupied, at the moment, with thoughts of the day's events. He had planned to visit his niece to catch up with her, to finally have a proper conversation with her for the first time since the Crossroads Inn. He had almost not brought Bronn with him, and thank the gods he had. They were down the hall when they'd heard Joanna scream. If it had only been him, what could he have done? 

Everything on his list had immediately been put below Joanna now. He'd left Bronn with her for the night in case Joffrey was so bold as to try again in the same night, and in the meantime, Tyrion had to handle everything else. He had planned to finish his supper before calling upon his sister to come to the Tower of the Hand, but she had beaten him to it. Cersei stormed in halfway through his meal, raving with one complaint or another and pacing across the room. He had tried to take a few more bites of food, before finally giving up and tossing his napkin on the table. 

"Lord Janos Slynt was commander of the city watch, you had no right to exile him." 

"I have every right," Tyrion said, "I am the King's Hand." 

"You're _serving_ as the King's Hand until Father gets here," she reminded. " _I'm_ Queen Regent." 

"Listen to me, Queen Regent, you're losing the people." She turned to look at him, an eyebrow raised. "Do you hear me?" 

She laughed. "The people? You think I care?" 

"You might find it difficult to rule over millions who want you dead. Half the city will starve when winter comes, the other half will plot to overthrow you. And your gold-plated thugs just gave them their rallying cry - the Queen slaughters babies." 

The smug expression that was so at home on Cersei's face before began to disappear, and she stared at Tyrion with a hard look. _A-ha,_ he thought. Confirmation. Cersei crossed the room to avoid looking at him. He turned in his seat to watch her, trying to gauge what she knew. 

"It wasn't you who gave the order, was it? Joffrey didn't even tell you." She didn't say anything, didn't turn to look at him. She stood near the balcony like she couldn't even hear him. "Did he tell you? I imagine that would be even worse." 

"He did what needed to be done," she said simply. Tyrion's jaw set and an ire like only Cersei could raise rose in him. 

"I see," he said, voice hard. "And I suppose you decided that Joanna was a necessary casualty? Thank the gods I had gone to see her or she'd be lying cold and dead as we speak!" 

"You think you'll have half the influence that I have on Joffrey?" she asked, finally moving to pace once more. "You won't find being Hand of the King half as easy as you think. You won't find ruling half as easy as you think. This is what it is - lying on a bed of weeds, ripping them out by the root one by one before they strangle you in your sleep." 

"So Joanna is a weed, I see. I hardly think - " 

"I don't care what you think! You've never taken it seriously - you haven't, Jaime hasn't!" She sat, defeated. Her voice softened. "Joffrey thinks his greatest threat is Joanna. I have to keep them both safe. It's all fallen on me." 

_As has Jaime - repeatedly - according to Stannis Baratheon,_ he thought, on instinct. He almost didn't say it. But he knew, now, that Cersei hadn't known that Joffrey had ordered the massacre or the attack on Joanna. Now he needed to know if the reason behind them was real. 

He was almost regretful as the words came out of his mouth, especially when the door that Cersei had opened to him - which he had expected to slam closed - didn't shut immediately. She swallowed thickly. 

"You're funny," she said. "You've always been funny. But none of your jokes will ever match the first one, will they?" The vitriol in her voice began to rise. "You remember - back when you ripped my mother open on your way out of her and she bled to death." 

Her words had hurt her more than he'd expected them to. 

"She was my mother too," he said. 

"Now they're gone," she continued - their mother, their father, their brother. All people that Cersei cared for infinitely more than Tyrion. "For the sake of _you_. There's no bigger joke in the world than that." 

Cersei liked to pretend that she wore a mask, that nobody truly knew her but herself. But she was a person, and Tyrion knew people. He knew that her words, painful as they were, were just a reaction. She was like an animal lashing out when their wound was prodded. The crueler her words were, the closer he was to the truth - and right now, her words were gutting. 

And now she was trying to turn tail and hide, to walk away as though she was carrying the victory on her shoulders, when in truth it was because she had been found out. She opened the door to leave and Tyrion knew that he had to speak up. 

"I'm arranging for Joanna to be sent away from King's Landing," he said shortly. Cersei paused and turned to look at him, fire in her eyes. 

"You can't - !" 

"I can and I will," he said, interrupting her before she could spit more venom at him. "I've arranged for her to stay at Casterly Rock until the war is over." 

"The war could go on for ages, you can't possibly - " 

"As Hand of the King, I have the choice between planning Joanna's travel or planning her funeral," he cut in sharply. Cersei's mouth snapped shut. "I think you and I would both prefer the former." 

"Joanna is my daughter," Cersei said, voice hard. She swallowed thickly, curling her hands into fists and clenching her teeth. "You cannot take her away from me, you have no right!" 

"Actually, I do not prefer not to plan her funeral - I _refuse_ ," said Tyrion, raising his voice to match hers. "Joffrey has already made one attempt on her life and I doubt that the death of Ser Boros has deterred him." Cersei said nothing, but looked away. He sighed and softened his voice once more. "Not everything is a personal vendetta against you. I'm trying to keep Joanna safe." 

Whether Cersei believed him or not, it seemed not to matter. She spun on her heel and stormed out of the room, letting the door swing closed with a bang behind her. Once more alone, Tyrion heaved a long sigh. For a split second, he wished that his family's messes were not his burden. When that second was over, he downed his goblet of wine and continued to make his plans.


	21. Away

Joanna would not be going to Casterly Rock. 

She had made this decision shortly after her uncle had come to her chamber and told her that he planned to send her away. It was not that she didn’t want to leave; it would be rather a relief to get away from her mother breathing down her neck, from her cruel - and now murderous - brother. There was an uncomfortable feeling sitting low in her gut, a distrust newly sowed. Joanna knew she was being foolish, and paranoid, but she felt she could not trust her mother. Every awful thing that Joffrey had ever done in his life, Cersei had always had-waved them away. There was nothing to say that she would do the same this time, but nothing to say that she wouldn’t. 

Convinced as she was in the rightfulness of these thoughts, they were poisonous. Cerenna and Myrielle, who Tyrion had suggested accompany Joanna back to Casterly Rock so they could see their family, were surely going to insist that Joanna’s newfound belief in Stannis Baratheon’s rumor was utter nonsense. She didn’t want to imagine the kinds of excuses they would come up with to explain away the vicious murder that Joffrey had planned for her. This poisonous mistrust seeped into thoughts of her other family members. Did Tyrion know? He did, didn’t he? She knew her uncle and the way he carefully crafted his words in every response. When she had asked him if the rumor was true, he hadn’t denied her, and she was sure that was as good as an affirmation. Late, late in the evening, she sat at her desk with her head in her hands. Her mind was in such disarray, from sleepiness and from the medicine Maester Pycelle had given her for the pain. For a moment, she felt like she was going completely mad. What were these thoughts she was having? Were they practical, or simply the result of an addled brain? Nevertheless, she felt like the only way to gain perspective was to gain distance from her family, which would be impossible when they were suffocating her at Casterly Rock. 

The first step was to deny accompaniment by Cerenna and Myrielle, who hardly ever entertained Joanna’s grand schemes. Tyrion was fine to allow Desmera to accompany her. Joanna had asked, almost as an afterthought, for Sansa to come as well. This suggestion was not quite as well received by her uncle. He had insisted that the King’s betrothed could not leave the city, despite Joanna’s vehement protests that Sansa was in just as much danger (if not perhaps more) in the Red Keep. Which meant the next thing for her to do was write Sansa a note before she left. She tried to keep her words concise, assuring Sansa that she would not be gone forever, and reminding her young friend to keep strength during her time in the city. Finishing this letter, Joanna considered briefly writing a reply to Robb Stark. She had not yet responded, not having the time or opportunity to figure out how to send a response to him without her mother finding out. It would have to wait, she decided; doubtless, Robb Stark would surely not be longing to hear the news that Joanna could no longer be of any help. 

In the morning, Joanna and Desmera dressed in their travel wear and went down to the courtyard, servants carrying trunks of clothes at their heels. A small wheelhouse had been prepared for the two, and a hefty retinue of soldiers was to accompany them. Many of them were the brutish, wild-looking mountain men that Tyrion had somehow brought into his employ. Hesitant, Joanna looked them up and down. 

“These are the best men you thought to send me with?” she asked her uncle when he arrived. 

“Of course,” he replied. “They are loyal to me and my money alone; I needn’t worry about anyone over my head giving them orders.” 

This explained the lack of Kingsguard accompanying her on her journey. Joanna found herself feeling rather relieved. Nonetheless, still nervous at the prospect of leaving, she fidgeted and looked around. There was no great to-do over her departure the way there was when the court had left for Winterfell. It was something of a relief, though the quiet allowed her brain to rattle with thoughts. 

“Does my mother know I’m going?” 

“Yes,” Tyrion replied. “Though I’ve made sure that Joffrey won’t be aware that you’re leaving until you’ve left.” 

Joanna shifted on her feet, looking over her uncle’s head at all the faces around them. There was a war in her chest regarding whether or not she was glad her mother wasn’t here. 

The side of her that was bitter – and sad – spoke up and said, “It seems she doesn’t care enough to see me off.” 

Tyrion held her hand. 

“Or,” he offered, “Perhaps she cares so much that it would hurt her to watch you leave.” Joanna looked down and didn’t reply. “How are you feeling? I can send a maester if you’re still in pain.” 

“I’m alright,” Joanna said, shaking her head and looking up. “It only hurts if I move it too much.” 

“Try to rest while you’re traveling,” Tyrion said. “I know that’s a lot to ask of you.” 

Joanna gave him a smile. She held out the letter to Sansa that was clasped in her hand. She had been gripping it so hard earlier that it was nearly crumpled. Tyrion took it, smoothing it to look at her seal stamped in honey-yellow wax. 

“I want you to give that to Sansa Stark,” she told him. “And don’t just hand it off to your squire – I want you put it in her hand.” 

“Is it that important?” he asked with suspicion and surprise. 

“Pretend like it is,” she insisted. Seeming to agree, he turned to hand it to the young squire who stood behind him. 

“I’m going to get that back,” he promised. 

With a small, halfhearted chuckle, Joanna carefully knelt to wrap her arms around her uncle. Her shoulder twinged only slightly, an easy price to pay to bid a proper goodbye to one of the only family members she truly liked, and who truly liked her. 

“I’ll miss you,” she said. “Try not to die like Ned Stark and Jon Arryn.” 

“I do every day,” he replied with a smile. Joanna pulled away and stood to her full height. “Travel safe, my dear.” 

Joanna and Desmera entered the wheelhouse, waving once more to Tyrion as it began to move and roll shakily over the cobblestones and out of the courtyard. Tyrion said that this was safer for her, and she believed him. It was only frustrating knowing that she was not the person in the most danger in the Red Keep. The most she could do now was hope that her letter would reach her safely and give her a semblance of comfort about being alone. 

Over the course of several hours, the city faded to countryside, occasionally passing farmsteads or small villages. Desmera had managed to doze off, spread across one side of the wheelhouse and covered in a cozy-looking fur. Joanna, spread out on the bench opposite, had tried to doze, but found herself stuck in the ever-worsening loop of thoughts springing to her mind just as she was about to fall asleep. She found herself staring out the window at the trees that passed, fiddling with her hands in her lap. 

When they stopped to rest for the night, and they were far enough away from King’s Landing, that was when Joanna planned to leave. She was anxious thinking of trying to escape – and carefully reminding herself every few moments that she wasn’t escaping, because she wasn’t a prisoner, even if it certainly felt like she was. 

Before dusk fell, they trailed off from the Gold Road and set up camp some distance away. Joanna paced around the wheelhouse as the tent she and Desmera would be sharing was set up by several Lannister footmen, ostensibly to stretch her legs, but mostly because she was antsy. While the tent was being set up, she called over the closest soldier, one of the towering and brutish mountain men. 

“Have dinner made,” she said. “I want to eat before we lose the light.” 

“I can’t cooks,” the soldier said. Joanna blinked. 

“Tell a servant who can cook,” she replied. The man looked at her, puzzled. 

“One of thems?” he asked, pointing at a Lannister soldier setting up her tent. 

“Try one of the servants with our trunks,” she said, impatient. That hadn’t seemed to occur to the tribesman before. He stood blankly for a moment, staring from person to person before finally walking off to – hopefully – ask the right person to start food. 

If Joanna played her cards right, this may end up being much easier than she had thought. 

She turned to Desmera. 

“Can you arrange horses for us?” she asked. Desmera frowned. 

“Horses? Whatever for?” 

“I want a quick ride tonight before the sun sets,” she replied. She reached for her friend’s hand. “Won’t you please? After we eat – it’ll be so much fun.” 

“Gods, why do you always have to drag me along when you want to get in trouble?” 

Joanna grinned. “Because you’re the most fun to get in trouble with.” 

Desmera rolled her eyes and smiled. 

“Gods,” she said again, “fine. I can’t believe the things I do for you.” 

Once the tent was set up, and the trunk of Joanna’s clothes deposited inside, she changed into a riding habit and more comfortable boots. Should she pack a cloak, she wondered? She threw one on around her shoulders just in case. If she loaded herself up with too many things, it would be too obvious that she planned to leave. 

Desmera returned once she had convinced a guardsman to keep two horses saddled so she and the princess could ride after they took their supper. They ate together in dim candlelight that evening; Joanna shoveled her food into her mouth, eager to get riding before they lost too might daylight. It was not safe to travel alone as it was, let alone in the evening hours when there was no light and less people around. 

As soon as they finished eating, Joanna leapt up and urged Desmera out of the tent, urging her to be quick so they could ride as long as they could before night fell. 

“This isn’t the last chance in your life to go riding,” Desmera reminded her. “In fact, you may even be able to spend more time riding at Casterly Rock.” 

“I know, I know,” hurried Joanna. Ensuring that no one was around to hear her, she said, “We’re not going to Casterly Rock.” 

Desmera stopped in her tracks. “What?” 

“Keep going,” Joanna urged. “We have to go.” 

She pulled Desmera by the arm to where the horses were tethered – but paused when she saw one of Tyrion’s tribesmen standing by his own third horse. 

“You’re not supposed to be here,” she said without thinking. 

“M’lord Tyrion told me not to let you out of our sights,” he told her. “I hafta go with you.” 

“No you don’t,” Joanna said flippantly, with a wave of her hand. “I’ve been riding all my life, and we won’t be going far. Enjoy your night off.” 

“M’lord Tyrion pays me to do as he says,” the soldier responded. Joanna worried her lip. 

“Fine, you want money? In my tent there’s a silverware set that’s genuine silver,” she said, jerking her head the direction of her tent. “You can go take as much as you like if let us go now and don’t bother me anymore.” 

The soldier looked unsurely between her and Desmera. Joanna tugged slightly on Desmera’s arm, a signal to try and get her friend to back her up. 

“It’s royal silverware,” Desmera agreed. “You’ll earn yourself thirty gold dragons at least.” 

He looked interested. Finally deciding that he believed them, the tribesman re-tethered his horse next to theirs and walked away. 

As soon as they were alone again, Joanna quickly got to untying their horses. 

“What do you mean we’re not going to Casterly Rock?” Desmera demanded. 

“Get on your horse,” Joanna said, already swinging her leg over the back of hers. 

“I won’t,” Desmera said resolutely, arms crossed. “Not until you tell me what you mean.” 

Joanna looked down at her friend, hesitating. She supposed that Desmera did deserve to know what she was up to, if she was hoping that she’d accompany her. 

“I don’t trust my family anymore,” she admitted. “Not even Tyrion, really. I want to go to Dragonstone. I want to know what my uncle Stannis was on about when he spread that rumor about my brother.” 

“What?” Desmera yelped. Joanna shushed her so she wouldn’t draw attention to them. 

“Come on,” she urged, getting desperate. “I’ll tell you more on the way.” 

“It’s not safe for you to be travelling without soldiers with you,” Desmera said, but she mounted her horse anyways. As soon as she was on her horse, Joanna kicked hers into a quick pace back towards the Gold Road. Desmera hurried to keep up. “And it’s not safe for you anywhere else but Casterly Rock!” 

“I can’t stand the idea of being trapped in Casterly Rock, not knowing whether or not the people around me are telling me the truth about what’s happening in King’s Landing while I’m away.” 

“Do you really think they’d do that?” Desmera asked. 

“Uncle Tyrion was the only person I could trust to tell me the truth. He lied about the rumor being a lie, I’m sure of it.” 

“But how can you know?” 

Joanna pulled her horse into a slower pace so she and Desmera could talk with more ease. 

“Look at me,” she said. “Look at me the way my blonde-haired, green-eyed brother looks at me. I’m the only one of my siblings who is a thing like my father. Joffrey wanted to kill me because of it. If the rumor wasn’t true, Tyrion... well, he would’ve done something else, I’m sure of it. But it is true, and he’s sending me away because he knows it is.” 

Desmera frowned. “Joanna, I think he’s sending you away to protect you. Just because Joffrey thinks something’s true doesn’t mean it is.” 

“I have to know more,” Joanna insisted. “Joffrey wanted to kill me because of a rumor, and I want to hear from the man who spread it why he thinks it’s true.” 

“And you think Stannis will be anymore truthful than your other family will be? Joanna, he probably just made that up because he wants to be king.” 

“Desmera,” said Joanna in a hard voice, pulling her horse to a halt. “I’m going to Dragonstone. I’ve made up my mind and you can’t change it – but you can come with me.” 

She looked completely reluctant, but urged her horse onward back to the Gold Road. 

“Fine,” Desmera said in a voice that was equally as firm. “Let’s be quick about this. If we die on the road to Dragonstone, I’m never letting you rest in your death.” 

Joanna was undeterred by the threat and smiled, kicking her horse to move faster in her excitement. She was resolute in getting away from the Lannisters, hearing the other side of her family’s story. And, she admitted to herself, she was not as worried about Stannis as Desmera was. If he did prove to be bold liar to gather power, and if he did pose a threat to Joanna, she felt quite sure that her mother would have no qualms – and certainly no trouble – in destroying him to get her back.

**Author's Note:**

> **Posted on fanfiction.net under the title Winter Winds by Starking (that's me!)**


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